


Do Not Open Before Christmas

by PlatinumAndPercocet



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Band, Blizzards, Chicago, Christmas, It has been dubbed baking porn and I will take that, M/M, Memories, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Patrick's cat is a bitch and I love her, Ridiculous amouts of baking, She does not share well, So does a special face for Kindchen, So many pies and cookies, Something for the angst master, Sweet Baker Boy Patrick, William Beckett and Gabe Saporta pop up, just trust me, lots of baking, musical baked goods, teacher pete
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-01-28 23:56:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12618452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlatinumAndPercocet/pseuds/PlatinumAndPercocet
Summary: Patrick and Pete have been PatrickAndPete for ten years.  They have been there for each other through college, trauma, beginnings and endings of relationships and so much more. Their friendship has managed to survive home renovations, new businesses and a ridiculous amount of questionably written high school English papers.  Patrick wants to know Pete's favorite dessert. Pete wants Patrick to be happy. Patrick's cat just wants Pete.  A story of friendship, cookies, pies, and maybe a few tropes.





	1. Sugar and spice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SnitchesAndTalkers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/gifts).



> This is... well, it is something. I am not just easing out of my comfort zone here, I am leaping out of it and setting it on fire. Literally. This started as a random suggestion and moment of encouragement from SnitchesAndTalkers during one of our unholy hour conversations (Three AM-ish, if you were wondering) and snowballed from there. She is totally to blame for this. And by blame, I mean thank. If it were not for her this wouldn't exist. 
> 
> Laudanum_Cafe provided invaluable cat tales to this story, and her support has been invaluable, even if it was just her listening to me while I screamed. PATSY. I love you. 
> 
> Das_Verlorene_Kind and Semi_Sweet have read bits and pieces of this and provided more enthusiasm than I deserve. Thank you.
> 
> Comments, kudos, and questions make the world go around, especially for writers trying something new. 
> 
> This hasn't been beta'd but has been read in various portions by the above-named people because they are amazing. 
> 
> Thank you so much for taking the time to read, I really hope you enjoy!

The air was redolent with spices, cinnamon, nutmeg and vanilla flirting with the nearly bitter scent of just barely burnt sugar and rich dark chocolate. Patrick cursed as he pulled a sheet pan out of the oven, the tea towel that he had grabbed from his shoulder a poor replacement for an actual potholder despite the calluses earned from years of pulling hot pans from ovens and off stovetops. There was a chance that he didn't have any fingerprints left thanks to a combination of searing temperatures and some lackluster knife skills when He was first starting out. On the plus side, he was pretty sure if he ever wanted to commit a murder he would be all set.

“ShitFuckDamn” the pan landed on the marble island beside the already cooling pie with a clatter just moments before a barely concerned voice piped up from the living room. 

“You alright, Pattycakes?” There was a laugh in Pete’s voice, as always, although the undercurrent of concern was there even if he didn't look away from Oogie Boogie on the television. 

“Just another burn, nothing serious.I’ve had worse. Pause that and get in here to taste this.” Sliding a knife carefully through the pie that sat in its glass dish, Patrick carefully cut a large slice and eased it out with a silver server, nudging it onto a solid white plate. The layers of flaky pastry, rich salted caramel, dark chocolate cream custard, and fluffy, toffee freckled meringue were perfectly set, the white peaks just barely bronzed. 

Slipping a flexible metal Turner beneath one of the dozen cookies that were perfectly lined up on the Silpat, he set it on the plate, careful to keep the still warm treat from touching it’s platemate.

“What tempting treats have you concocted for me tonight?” Pete ambled into the kitchen, plaid pajama pants slung low on his hips, a strip of honey inked skin visible between the waistband and the hem of his truly atrocious Christmas sweater as he jumped up on the granite countertop, snagging the plate with greedy hands. 

 

“Golden Years. Butter pastry, chewy salted caramel, dark chocolate creme patisserie and a toffee studded meringue on the pie, bittersweet chocolate cookies filled with salted caramel and bits of brickle shards. Pie first, I don't need you burning your fucking tongue again, or anything else. You bitched about it for a goddamn week last time.”

"Yeah well, I'm an English teacher, not a cook how am I supposed to know caramel gets hotter than molten fucking lava?" Pete complained around the bite of pie he had all but shoved in his mouth.

"Pete, you got second-degree burns on your back. I don't even know how that is possible." Patrick rolled his eyes behind his glasses before slipping them off and wiping them absently on his apron, more so he couldn't see Pete's face than a need to actually clean the lenses. If anything, the flour smudged fabric would only make more of a mess, but it was an acceptable cover, for the moment at least. 

 

“Mrrrpphsggh” Pete’s response was garbled, nothing but a moan around the cookie that he had crammed into his mouth and Patrick shook his head, turning back towards the fridge to hide a laugh. Grabbing a bottle of milk from the fridge, he filled the glasses that were already on the counter, wordlessly handing one to Pete who was grinning, usually bright white teeth covered in melted chocolate and caramel. He downed half the glass in one swallow before wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and continuing as though he hadn’t just tried to talk with a cookie shoved in his mouth. “I wasn’t wearing a shirt and you said it was cold so I wanted to check.”

“Pete how in the hell you can be so fucking smart and have so little actual common sense is beyond me. You are a teacher, people regularly put you in charge of their teenagers and trust that you will guide them towards adulthood and help instill in them the things they need to know to thrive. Explain to me how you ended up half naked in my kitchen anyway?” Patrick spoke with the air of someone who’d had this same conversation, or a version of it anyway, many times before. Probably because he had. Turning his attention away from the man that was currently perched on his island and inhaling a second cookie, he poured milk into the saucepan that sat on the cooktop, turning the heat on low beneath it before plucking a still warm cookie from the tray. 

“First of all, Rickster, I teach high school juniors and seniors English, not home ec. If they don’t know at least the basics of life by the time they get in my classroom, well I can’t really do much after that, that is all on the parents. And I highly doubt that any of my students are going to desperately need to be able to discuss the Oxford comma or weigh in the relative merits of Poe versus Tennyson in order to survive. As for being shirtless, well, you know how I feel about that. If it weren’t sub-fucking-arctic outside, I would not be wearing a sweater right now. Are you making cocoa?” The switch in topic was not surprising, Pete tended to have the attention span of a peach pie, but he was Patrick’s best friend, he had been for nearly a decade. 

They had been thrown together by chance, a random pairing spit out by a computer at DePaul and, after some initial friction, mostly due to Pete being beyond obnoxious, they had formed a fast and lasting friendship. It had been far from honey and roses, of course, and thanks to Patrick’s hair-trigger temper, there had been more than a few fights, but they had always settled back down. Pete had been the most consistent presence in his life for the better part of the last ten years; he had been there when his parents had died, far before their time, while the drunk teenager that had slammed head-on into their car as they headed home from a Christmas Eve party walked away with little more than a scratch. 

Patrick shook his head again, as though the motion would somehow dispel the memories. It did not, it never did. They hadn’t gotten easier as time passed, but it had somehow become softer, in a strange way the searing pain lessening to a dull ache that intensified every now and then. That first Christmas after the accident, Patrick had been adamant about not celebrating, barricading himself in his bedroom with an absolutely illegally obtained bottle of Jack, content to drink away the days. Pete, however, had different plans. After a broken bed frame, a hole in a door, a bottle of Jack splattered across the wall and a black eye for Pete, Patrick had somehow ended up making cocoa at Pete’s parent's house. It started a tradition, however grim it may have been, but it brought a bit of happiness into a holiday that had been tinged with sadness. Pete was good like that. 

Seven years had passed since that first, rather a violent Christmas eve had ended with them both tucked up in Pete’s childhood bed, Star Wars sheets soft with wear and Patrick crying himself to sleep. Some things had changed while others had stayed the same, but the one constant, the thing that Patrick could count on no matter what, was Pete. 

“Hey, Trick. You still with me?” The concern was evident in Pete’s voice and Patrick smiled, looking up from the apparently hypnotizing saucepan of milk. 

“Yeah, I’m fine just thinking you know? Nothing bad, I promise. And yes, I am making cocoa. What mug do you want?” The topic change was not subtle, but it was necessary and Pete was well aware of that fact. 

“Yoda. I always use Yoda. It’s tradition.” There was a laugh in Pete’s words and Patrick was retrieving a pair of mugs before he was even done speaking, setting them down on the counter. Two truffles were dropped into each mug, rich confections of chilled bittersweet ganache and sugar that he always made a huge batch on the day after Thanksgiving, and savored in the evenings when he got home from work, the last four always saved for Christmas Eve. 

“You and your traditions.” Patrick may have sounded gruff, but the smile on his face as he pulled a chilled metal bowl and whisk from the freezer was soft, a testament to his love for the small moments that brought some brightness to an otherwise grey day. 

Setting his icy haul on the island, maybe purposefully against Pete’s leg, heavy whipping cream, powdered sugar and a scoop of vanilla bean paste went into the bowl as Pete shrieked, in the manliest of ways of course, and bounced further down the island, sliding along the polished granite surface easily. 

“You’re a dick, Trick.” There was laughter in Pete’s voice and Patrick just flipped him off and set to whisking. Yes, there was a matte black kitchen aid on the counter with multiple bowls, and a hand mixer tucked away somewhere, but he swore that hand whipped cream just tasted better. If he had been paying less attention to the thickening cream, he would have noticed a very familiar stare tracking his movements but whipped cream could be fickle and he wasn't going to risk over or under whipping, not tonight. The clank of metal on metal filled the house for a few minutes until the cream had thickened, just this side of more than most people liked. Most people could kiss Patrick’s ass. He may not have gone to pastry school, but he knew what he liked and stuck to it; it had served him well so far. 

Dropping the whisk, he turned with practiced movements to pour the steaming milk into the mugs he had set out, laughing as the heat caused garish Christmas lights to appear wrapped around Yoda’s ears. The mug had been a Goodwill find about six years ago and Pete had just about kissed him when he had unwrapped it. Patrick, if he was being honest with himself, which he tried not to do often, would not have minded. 

‘Mrrrooooowwww.’ 

“Baby! There’s my best girl. C'mere Brulee, come see Daddy.” Pete spoke with an undisguised adoration and Patrick didn’t even need to turn around.

“Pete if that cat is on the counter, I swear to fuck.” It was a hollow threat, one with absolutely no follow through. 

“I mean if you wanna get technical…” He could hear the grin in Pete’s voice as he dropped spoons into each mug and turned back to the island. 

Technically, the cat was on Pete’s lap, all russet cute, wide eyes and a purr so loud she was probably vibrating. There was a speck of white on the feline’s nose and a telltale swipe of a finger across the whipped cream in the bowl. Patrick just sighed and glared at his cat, curled up on Pete’s lap and kneading at his thigh through plaid pajamas. Brulee glared back. Brulee did not give a single flying fuck. 

Glaring at his pet and his best friend in succession, Patrick simply sighed and grabbed a cookie scoop carefully dropping a near perfect plop of whipped cream into each mug. Yoda got one scoop, some ridiculousness from Pete about too much cream and not enough chocolate, while the old, faded photo mug got two, both to cool the piping beverage and add some extra body to the already intense drink. Patrick was not, as was well known, particularly fond of chocolate. He ate it on a regular basis, that was part of his job, really, but if he had a choice it would be his second to nearly anything. This cocoa, however, well that was different and not just because of tradition. It was a recipe of his grandmother’s, one that his mother proudly made every year that Patrick could remember, and it seemed somehow fitting to continue that legacy. 

Patrick was big on that, honoring his family however he could, even if it took him a little while to realize that. It was the reason he had cocoa and stained glass sugar cookies with Pete every Christmas Eve for the last eight years. It was the reason that there was a small tree in the corner by the expansive window that overlooked the white-blanketed street, twinkling with blue, silver and purple ornaments and battery powered lights. There had been tinsel as well, until he’d had to pull it, literally, out of a miniature Brulee’s ass. Despite being only months old, the kitten still fought the intrusion, and Patrick could not blame her, although he was not quite as fond of the faint scars that still littered his forearms. Pete had sat back and laughed because Pete was a dick like that. 

“You are a traitor, Brulee.” The cat huffed in frustration, somehow while still purring, and nudged against Pete’s hand. A feline ‘fuck you’ if Patrick had ever seen one. 

“Hey, Be nice to my girl. She will warm up to you eventually.” Pete had scooped the cat up in one hand, cradling her like a baby while balancing his mug in the other and hopped down to the ground, not spilling a drop, nor disrupting Brulee’s seemingly delicate sensibilities. 

“It has been three fucking years, she will not, but good on ya for keeping hope alive.” Gathering the tray of cookies that had been carefully prepared earlier in the day, Patrick retrieved his mug and followed Pete and his mercurial cat into the living room. Settling down on the opposite side of the couch of Pete, he deposited the cookies on the empty cushion between them before shoving his bare feet beneath Pete’s thighs. If he was maybe a bit rougher than necessary and possibly jostled Brulee from where she had settled in a perfect circle, tail covering her nose, well, whoops. 

 

Pete laughed, clear and braying in the silence of the living room, before fiddling with the remote control to find the Rankin-Bass Christmas specials that factored into the next part of their evening. As cheesy as they were, and they absolutely were, there was something endearing about them; the work that had gone into each frame, and the nostalgia that practically seeped from the television, nearly taking him back in time. Brulee, sensing that she was not going to be getting her nightly dose of one hundred percent of Pete’s attention, stuck a paw in the froth that topped his mug, chirped and hopped off his lap to wander, plopping under the tree to lick her ass amidst the scattered gifts like a total fucker. 

“I maintain that she is your cat, Peter. The only reason she lives with me is that Ashlee was allergic.” 

“Touche, Rick. And Ashlee was never allergic, she just didn’t want to compete with another redhead. At least that is what she screamed at me during one of her drunk phone calls after she left. Still, makes exactly zero sense to me, but whatever. Besides, you needed someone to keep you company. You spend far too much time alone or at work, especially after you and Hayley split. And don’t say work counts. As great as Gabe and Will are, your employees do not count as friends.” The light admonishment in Pete’s tone was nothing new; it had become charmingly routine over the last three years. 

“But they ARE my friends, Pete. They actually do count, and not just because I pay them, but thank you for that resounding reminder of your faith in me to be an actual part of human society.” There was no small amount impertinence in Patrick’s voice, although it was feigned. Mostly, anyway. 

 

“Yeah but you love me most, right?” There was something that Patrick couldn’t quite place in Pete’s voice, lurking just behind the usual humor that laced all of his words, just a suggestion of more, but it was gone in a blink when Pete continued with some of the actual finesse that he usually hid. “Really though, I love Gabey and Will, and I can’t imagine the shop without them. They are good people. You deserve good people, Rick.” 

“Thanks, Pete.” The words were sincere, and Patrick took a sip of his lightly cooled cocoa, relishing both the warmth of the beverage and the memories that came rushing back with every sip. Aside from it being his Grandmother’s recipe, as all of his recipes were, the house he lived in had been hers as well. Rented out after she had passed when Patrick was barely ten, he had decided to renovate it once he had graduated from DePaul. His degree in music composition did very little to actually help him know what he was doing, but that same piece of paper did very little to help him open a bakery either, so. The tidy sums that Patrick had received from both his parent's life insurance and the civil suits had paid for both the renovations and the original purchase of Semi-Sweet, and he had bribed Pete into helping with as much of the remodel as he could which was a surprising amount. Although the outside was very little to write home about, as it were, this was Patrick’s personal oasis, his retreat, and serenity away from the constant chaos that was his work. 

His job was amazing, he loved every moment of it, except for the having to wake up at three thirty part in order to be at the shop by four fifteen. That was something he could forever live without. Six years had gotten him into the swing of things, however, and it only took about four cups of coffee before he could function fully now, as compared to the full pot when he had first started. The shop had started with a challenge and a half-hearted three AM game of twenty questions, fueled in no small part by a bottle of Jameson’s. Patrick had been going through boxes that he had found stored perfectly in his grandmother’s attic and stumbled across a veritable treasure trove of cookbooks as well as her recipe box. He recognized the delicate, flowy script on the nearly yellowed cards immediately and the pang of loss he felt was almost palpable it hit so hard.

‘What’s your favorite dessert?’ It had been a seemingly innocuous question, although drunk Patrick was not exactly known for his insight. Drunk Pete, even more so than regular Pete, was an asshole and refused to answer. So Patrick, being stubborn as he was, made it his mission in life to bake until he figured it out. He had more than a little spare time on his hands in those days; surprisingly the jobs for a freshly minted music composition major were few and far between. After taking on the renovations of his Grandmother’s old townhouse, which had fortunately been rented by some amazing tenants for the last decade, surrounded by wood and paint and who the fuck else knew what, he decided to bake. 

It was something he had always done with his Grandmother, and his mother as well, and even in the slightly messy kitchen, still heavy with the scent of sawdust and wet paint with Pete crashed out on the couch because the guest room was still a storage space, the house, or beginnings of one, turned into a home. Mixing, measuring, tasting… every little moment as he mixed up a batch of whipped shortbread cookies at some unholy hour, brought him peace. And so he kept doing it, working his way through Grandma’s recipe box, tweaking things here and there. And then he tackled his Mother’s much less extensive cards. And then he started buying cookbooks. By the time his home, and that was what it finally was, had been finished, he had found a new passion and, with Pete's far from subtle encouragement, a new calling. Yes, music was still in his blood as the makeshift studio in the basement could attest, but there was something that felt right about baking. The remaining bit of his savings went into opening up his shop, his baby as it were. It was small, the actual cafe portion barely larger than the kitchen in the back, but it was perfect and, aside from the hideous hours, Patrick took more pride in his work than he had ever imagined, churning out musically inspired cookies and pies of every ilk and flavor combination, always trying to find Pete’s favorite dessert. Damn his competitive streak had cost him but in the best ways. 

Six years of days spent at Half-Doomed and Semi-Sweet, Pete’s poetic soul's immediate reaction to idea of a bakery that sold only pie, cookies and hot coffee and tea, and nights spent testing new recipes on a very eager Pete in exchange for reading over the latest chapter of his perpetually in progress novel, left very little time for anything else. Finding someone willing to work with both crazy hours both on and off the clock was more than a bit difficult; Dallon had understood that, but split after a few months, amicably of course. He still came into the shop now and then, his pretty husband on his arm and their absolutely precious adopted little girl in a stroller. Patrick had made their wedding favors, in fact, and the almond sugar cookies with a vanilla and cherry rum glaze brushed with pale blue luster dust,‘Imagine Me And You’, had actually gained a permanent slot on the seasonally rotating menu alongside a pie of the same name. 

Hayley had been around for almost two years before they both realized that they were just not meant to be. Sometimes there was something to be said growing up and growing apart. Her cookie, a triple citrus-spiked sugar cookie with a rich white chocolate ganache filling that was flecked with bits of slivered chocolate covered orange peel was another permanent menu fixture, although the accompanying pie, a rich chocolate shortbread crust filled with layered white chocolate and Meyer lemon curd fillings and topped with an orange infused cream, tinted the color of the petite woman’s hair, ‘I’m On Fire’ was one of the top sellers, with Hayley herself ordering two dozen cookies and a pie weekly for the break room at her rapidly growing hair dye company. 

Aside from a few rather unmemorable one-night stands, Patrick had given up on relationships, at least for now. He had a business that he loved, a home he felt peace in, good employees that he trusted, a cat that hated him and a best friend that was basically his world. He had gotten used to sleeping in an empty bed pretty quickly and even convinced himself that he preferred it. 

“Yo, earth to Stump. You alright, Patrick?” That familiar concern was back in Pete’s voice and Patrick shook his head, realizing that he had been staring out the window at the blizzard that was blanketing the streets for who the fuck knew how long, the wind whipping fat flakes around and rattling the windows while the faint glow of Christmas lights twinkled in the windows of the houses across the street. He felt his cheeks pink as he turned his attention back to Pete, smiling genuinely as he met warm amber eyes. 

“I’m golden, I promise just kind of lost in my head for a minute is all. No worries Pete.” Patrick burrowed his bare feet further under Pete’s thighs, still cold despite the fire that crackled in the fireplace. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Pete’s voice was teasing, but his smile gentle, and Patrick shook his head. 

“I’ll sell ‘em for a dollar, but only if you tell me your favorite dessert.” It was a catch that was six years in the making, and Patrick slipped it in whenever he could, although Pete never faltered and tonight did not seem to be an exception. 

“Nice try, Lunchbox, but not a damn chance. I’ll tell you when the time is right.” Pete was grinning now, all white teeth and mirth, whiskey eyes dancing in the firelight. 

Patrick flipped him off because fuck that cryptic bastard. Brulee, apparently taking offense to her person being insulted hissed from beneath the Christmas tree, the white battery powered lights making her russet fur almost glow. 

Everything seemed to happen at once after that, the lights flickering and going dim, both inside and outside the windows, the world outside going from a winter wonderland to darkness.


	2. I'm Of Good Cheer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Power outages, battery powered Christmas lights and more Brulee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this happened. I had originally had a very different ending to this chapter but that kind of went a bit awry. It will get back around, I promise. 
> 
> I am kind of in awe of the reception this has received so far, thank you all for kind of blowing my mind. Your comments and kudos absolutely made my day, every single one. I hope this can live up to the first chapter. This is kind of on the shorter side but it felt like a natural place to pause if that means anything. 
> 
> This hasn't been beta'd; Grammarly is my friend. 
> 
> Endless thanks and love to SnitchesAndTalkers for handholding, cheerleading and all around amazingness. I adore you and seriously would not have written any of this without your encouragement. 
> 
> Much love to Laudanum_Cafe for being my Patsy and loving Baker Boy even more than I do. Christmas presents will come soon. 
> 
> Thanks and treats to Semi_Sweet and Das_Verlorene_Kind for being super amazing and reading over the snippets that I sent them. Y'all are amazing and I am so thankful. 
> 
> If you haven't read these folks amazing works, go and do so. Now. This chapter will keep, I promise. Leave some kudos and comments and then come fangirl over them with me. It's fun. 
> 
> Thank you so, so much to everyone who has taken the time to read, comment or kudos, it means more to me than I can even begin to say. I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Aural pleasure: Christmas Canon Rock by Trans-Siberian Orchestra

“Of course.” Patrick’s voice was resigned as he blinked, however futility against the darkness. Then again, it wasn’t actually dark. The fire still crackled in the fireplace and the lights on his small tree were battery powered. After an incident with a very miniature Brulee, the light cords and an entirely replaced socket, Patrick had decided that the benefits of the new lights far outweighed the convenience of the traditional ones. 

“You act like it is a hardship to be sitting by the fire and drinking cocoa with me while the snow falls outside. Come on Trick, you have to admit it is kind of picturesque.” Pete’s voice was teasing and he moved the cookies, shifting them to the coffee table with ease in the semi-darkness and rested his head on Patrick’s shoulder with an almost insufferable grin. 

“It is. I was kind of looking forward to Bumbles.” Patrick was grumpy for no other reason than he didn’t know how else to be. There was no real reason to be worried; he had been without power in the winter before, on several occasions. The fire provided more than enough heat and there was a stack of feather and fluff blankets in the linen closet that would provide some additional warmth. His stove ran on natural gas, an absolutely non-negotiable point when he was renovating, and he had plenty of easy make meals in the pantry. Actually, Pasta e Cici made a fantastic breakfast, especially with eggs.

“I mean really, some decorations, a few blankets by the fire and a bit of Bailey’s in the hot cocoa and it would be downright romantic.” Pete kept on babbling as Patrick lost himself in his thoughts, although his last word was more than enough to bring the already grumpy redhead back to the moment at hand. And just enough of a reminder that there was no reason for romance. 

"Really, Pete?." The irritation was thick in Patrick’s voice, although it was very much forced, more in part to keep certain thoughts locked in their box in the back of his brain than anything else. Pete either didn’t notice or didn’t care, maybe both. 

"No, really Patrick. A bit of mistletoe would brighten this place up." Even by the firelight and twinkling battery packs of the Christmas tree, Pete's smile was gleaming. 

 

"Pete, enough." Patrick was flustered and could feel his cheeks heating as the ‘what ifs’ and ‘I’ll never knows’ mixed with memories long since abandoned; never had he been more thankful for a power outage.

"No, seriously Trick. I can just see it now. You charming some PYT, all angelic face and sheepish smiles before moving in for th-" Pete's words were cut off seconds after Patrick's hands had fisted into his heinous sweater, hauling him in and crashing their lips together. It was messy, all clinking teeth and anger and far more need than Patrick wanted to admit. His breathing was heavy when he finally pulled away, eyes cast down but with a defiant set to his shoulders that spoke volumes in the silence. 

"Patrick?" Pete's voice sounded small, more so than Patrick had ever heard, and the single word hung in the air seeming to echo amongst the crackle pop of the logs in the fireplace. 

"Nothing else has ever managed to shut you up, so. " Patrick tried for nonchalance; the keyword was tried. He missed it by a mile. Hazarding a glance at Pete, Patrick knew he was well and truly fucked, and not in the good way. He had spent more time than he cared to admit, than he WOULD admit, ignoring the fact that he was attracted to Pete. He was Pete, EVERYBODY was attracted to him, why should Patrick be any different? Looking at him now, his skin burnished gold in the flickering firelight, highlighting the dark in that just barely peeked beneath the shoved up sleeves of his awful sweater, amber eyes nearly glowing; his fingers were still on his damn lips. Patrick clasped his hands around his mug before setting it back down on the coffee table; the liquid sloshing inside was far too much of a give away to his not exactly steady state. 

“Believe me, there are other ways.” Although there was a very distinct double meaning to his words, and one that Patrick actually fucking blushed at, feeling his ears go pink, but there was no lasciviousness in his tone, not even a little bit. Pete seemed almost innocent in the glowing gold light, and he was at heart; he possessed a certain joy and youthful innocence that, by all accounts, he should not have but that was Pete. He somehow managed to defy all expectations while slotting exactly into them at the same time. 

“Mrow.” Brulee, however, possessed no joy. Patrick swore that his bitch cat actually glared at him, swishing her admittedly magnificent tail as she clambered into Pete’s lap as though her former spot by the fire was suddenly not good enough for her. He eyes closed as Pete started scritching behind her ears and the damn smug beast actually smirked, purring so loud that Patrick could hear her over the crackling of the fire. 

“You’re an asshole, Brulee.” It wasn’t a statement so much as it was an observation and the cat opened her green eyes lazily, shoving her head into Pete’s hand and fucking smiled, as though she were mocking him. Her paws were stretched out elegantly in front of her and they just barely started moving as she relaxed under the attention of her favorite person, kneading the tiny daggers that she called claws through the flannel of Pete’s pajama pants and directly into his leg. 

“Goddamn Girl, that fucking hurts.” Pete actually yelped, and Patrick knew first hand the special pain that came from Brulee’s claws. He tried to trim them, and she used her scratching post on a regular basis, but really, she was just probably evil and regenerated the needle-like claws at will. 

“Fucking hell, Brulee, get.” Patrick was flustered. He hated to admit that, he had always seen it as a sign of weakness, but he absolutely was. Shoving both absently and automatically at his cat, he got the briefest brush of soft fur against his fingers before that bitch bolted and Patrick was left with a hand planted firmly against Pete’s lap. Which was decidedly NOT soft. At. Fucking. All. 

Pete did not seem upset about Brulee’s territorial little stunt, in fact, he was quite the opposite if the soft moan that vibrated in his throat was anything to go by. And also the half-hard dick beneath Patrick’s fingers. That was new, and not at all unwelcome. Well, not new in the sense that Patrick had never seen Pete’s cock before. Being roommates for four years in college guaranteed that; Patrick had been witness to things that he never wanted to see. Or hear. Pete not only eschewed clothes as often as he possibly could get away with, but he was very… vocal. There may have possibly been a lonely night or two dozen that Patrick had maybe called upon one or two of those memories in a moment of desperate loneliness. He wasn’t particularly proud of it but Pete was… Pete. And Pete was sitting stock still, entirely unusual for him. The man was normally a ball of kinetic energy, bouncing around with all the grace of a hyperactive llama, but right now he was still. And warm. And, as Patrick’s brain so happily supplied, more than just a tiny bit turned on. 

“Trick.” Pete’s voice was quiet, broken in a way Patrick hadn’t heard before. Well, he hadn’t heard it directed at him; long forgotten faces attached to moans in the dark of a cramped dorm room? Yes. The occasional ill-advised hookup in a highly public place? Yup. From his own damn bed while he slept off a spectacular whiskey hangover after his twenty-sixth birthday? Absolutely. And that had also resulted in the loss of his favorite sheets because of Ashlee and her goddamn lube issues. But never, ever at him. Eighteen-year-old Patrick would not have been disappointed. 

Patrick took a breath, far deeper than he would ever admit to anyone, and glanced up, baby blues meeting wide-eyed browns. He was not at all disappointed in what he saw in Pete’s eyes, a bit surprised maybe, but not disappointed; need, confusion and not a little bit of desire darkened their usual clear hazel depths. Had they been drinking, Patrick would have easily blamed it on the alcohol. As it was, he could blame a rather extended dry spell on his side, because his dick was definitely taking a firm interest in the proceedings, although he couldn’t vouch for Pete. Darting his tongue out to wet his lips, Patrick smirked as he saw Pete’s gaze drop just slightly. Emboldened, whether it was from the power outage, the emotions of the night, Pete’s obvious interest or nearly a decade of repressed pining, he did not know, but there was no way that Patrick was going to let this opportunity slip by, despite the little nagging voice in his head that said he could lose everything. That little voice could get fucked. 

Taking advantage of his slightly wavering confidence, Patrick leaned forward again, his free hand that was not very conspicuously resting on Pete’s dick sliding to the back of his neck to pull him in for another kiss. This one was not like the first, not even a little bit; well, maybe a smidgen. There was a lick of desperation behind the yielding lips and searching hands; panted breaths and hushed moans, hidden away for the moment. A spark of fear kindled, low and hot in Patrick’s belly and it was with no small amount of restraint that he pulled away, forcing himself to meet Pete’s gaze again.

“Pete, is this- I mean?” He tripped over his words; Pete was the poet, he just translated things into sugar and sweet. 

“I swear to fuck, Patrick if you take your hand off my dick or ask me if we are okay right now, I am going to hit you and then come on your apron, so…” Maybe Pete wasn’t a poet. He also wasn’t thinking clearly because Patrick’s aprons were fucking sacred. There was a collection of nearly twenty just in the closet here alone, most of which were custom made, that he valued nearly as much as the vinyl and cookbooks that were packed into shelves all throughout the house in an order that only Patrick knew. 

Emboldened by Pete’s obvious interest, Patrick smiled sweetly, knowing full well the advantages of having what Will referred to as an angelic face, and gave Pete’s dick a slight squeeze. The moan that it drew from deep in the other man’s throat was more satisfying that Patrick could have dared imagine. 

“I’m sorry, you’ll what now?” Although his voice was soft, there was a gravity to it, and just the slightest hint of a smile as he met Pete’s eyes again. The sheer need that he found there was more than a bit shocking. Patrick had seen Pete through relationships, good and bad, and breakups, bad and worse. He had been with him through late nights and earlier mornings as Pete fell a little bit in love with the cashier at CVS or the girl who had given him a cigarette in a frosty alley after a show in some shitty club. Pete wanted to love everyone, even if it was just for a moment, and he wanted to fuck everyone in the same way. He’d explained it to Patrick one night, sprawled on the floor in front of Pete’s childhood bedroom, Star Wars sheets STILL on the bed and half a bottle of Jack sloshing in their stomachs. “I just want to know people. I want to see what they are really like, I want to make them happy. I want to see the look on their face before they come; to see them let their guard down enough so I can see the desire in their eyes” It hadn’t made sense then, but now, when he saw that desire reflected at him for the first time in, well, ever, Patrick finally got it a little bit. 

“You heard me, Pattycakes.” There was a challenge in Pete’s words and the ghost of a smile pulling at his lips. Patrick was never one to back down from that, it was something of a downfall of his more than slight need for control, and Pete knew that very well. 

“Fuck you, Pete.” The words were ones Patrick had said more often than he could possibly count, although there was something different about them in this moment; something heavy and laced with more meaning than he could possibly give thought to. Pushing the thoughts away, Patrick finally pulled his hand from Pete’s dick, much to his displeasure, and Pete whined, actually whined, until Patrick shoved the same hand past the waistband of his pajamas, his fingers finally, finally brushing against hot velvet skin and just the slightest tickle of coarse hair. There was that moan again, throaty and almost delicate in the strangest of ways, which should have been surprising for someone like Pete. He seemed to be all brazen brashness and outlandish antics, but there was more to him than that, if people just looked past the surface. Most people didn’t; it was easy to get caught up in how fucking pretty Pete was, in how much of himself he seemed to put out there. Most people got caught up in the cocksure show of it all. Most people weren’t Patrick. 

The first stroke was clumsy almost, inhibited by warm flannel and a really fucking shitty angle, but there was no way that Patrick missed Pete’s moan, that he didn’t see his fists grasp at the couch beneath him, or feel his hips buck up, just slightly, into the touch. Patrick’s own cock hardened in his jeans, but that was not a priority at the moment, oddly. Right now the only thing Patrick wanted was to see Pete fall apart; he had wondered, however inappropriately, for years what he would look like. He knew what he sounded like, that wasn’t anything new, but he wanted more, however much he had denied it. 

“Trick, you’re killing me here.” The words came out on a pant after a few more strokes, too dry and too harsh, but there wasn’t anything but need in Pete’s voice, raw and unfiltered, almost desperate in its openness. Patrick smiled knowingly, not at all because Jesus Christ, he knew that, and pulled his hand from Pete’s pants, letting the waistband snap back just a bit harder than necessary. Pete groaned because of course, he did. “Are you fucking kidding me right now, Patrick? Because I swear to fuck I wi-” Pete’s words trailed off as he opened his eyes, no doubt registering the shift of the couch cushions beside him, just moments before Patrick’s hands slipped to his hips, fingers tapping impatiently. 

“Up.” Patrick didn’t elaborate, he really didn’t need to as Pete pushed his hips up, lifting his ass off the couch at the same time that Patrick tugged on his waistband, pulling the pants down over muscled thighs, tossing them absently behind him as he sank to his knees 

Patrick didn’t sports, not ever; his aim was bad when he was paying attention; it was spectacularly awful when he was distracted by a very fucking pretty cock not a foot from his lips. 

“Mmmmmroww.” The angry yowl from his goddamn jealous as fuck cat was accompanied by a flash of russet fur as Brulee dashed past, pausing only to give a stinging swipe of those goddamn claws across the back of Patrick’s hand as she hopped back up on the couch beside Pete. 

Patrick blinked, the sharp pain flaring over the back of his hand as he stared at Brulee. Brulee looked back at him, her green eyes unblinking. “Did you just try and cockblock me, cat?” 

The cat flopped down with an absurd air of superiority, purring as she tucked her head against Pete’s bare thigh with a contented purr. Brulee was a goddamn bitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm AllKindsOfPlatinumAndPercocet over on Tumblr. Come say hi, I promise I'm not all that scary.


	3. The Gifts You're Recieving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brulee is punished and Pete is surprised

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is a thing that happened. Self-doubt is a bitch, especially when you are doing all kinds of firsts in one go. Want to help alleviate that? Hit the kudos button or leave a comment, I promise you it will be worth it. 
> 
> This has not been betaed, but Grammarly is my friend, so. 
> 
> Thanks and endless pre-hiatus Patrick pics to my dear SnitchesAndTalkers for holding my hand and reassuring me whilst I freaked the fuck out. 
> 
> Love to Laudanum_Cafe for being AWESOME and loving these characters as much as I do. Cheers, Pats. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has encouraged, read or even remotely supported me whilst I wrote this ridiculous chapter, I hope it does you justice. 
> 
> AUral Satisfaction: 'Little Drummer Boy/Peace on Earth' by David Bowie and Bing Crosby. You are welcome for runining that for you.

Patrick hated his cat. Hated. Her. She was an evil minion sent straight from the devil to make his life miserable. Glaring at the she-beast had absolutely zero effect, although he was not surprised. ‘Mrrrow.’ The creature actually sounded happy with herself. Pete laughed, loud, braying and far more attractive than it should have been, and Patrick seethed, brushing the russet cat off. It did not work; Brulee remained unswayed, licking a dainty paw and running it over her ear as though she had all the time in the world. 

“Pretty sure you did indeed just got cockblocked by your cat, Trick.” Pete barely got the words out between laughs, his head tossed back. Patrick didn’t like being laughed at on a good day and this moment, right now, was the exact opposite of good. Pushing up fluidly to his feet, Patrick fisted his hand in Pete’s hideous sweater and pulled him close, leaning down to meet him halfway, his voice in a whisper. 

“Judging by the proceedings, Peter, I would say you just got cockblocked by my cat.” To illustrate his point, Patrick smiled all honey and light, as his free hand stroked firmly over Pete’s dick, drawing a moan from deep in his throat. 

“The cat can get the fuck out.” Pete’s voice was raw with want, a sound that was aimed at Patrick. He hadn’t heard that level of need in a very, very long time and it sent a dark thrill down his spine. 

Leaning in to brush a kiss, chaste and sweet, against Pete’s lips, Patrick nearly whispered, the sound far dirtier than he had ever imagined. “Don’t move.” With that, he quickly collected his asshole cat, despite her vigorous protests, and headed up the stairs, a hissing, squirming bundle of fur and rage trapped in his arms. He counted the steps out of habit, navigating the house expertly in the dark and stopped in front of the spare room at the very end of the second story hall that served as Brulee’s room. Her litter box was in there, as well as a supply of dry food and water, more shiny, feathered and catnipped toys than Patrick could count, blankets and pillows strewn over the floor for Her Fluffy Highness to sleep on and not one but two climbing towers, one complete with a fucking castle because the demon beast didn’t already have too high of an opinion of herself. Keeping the cat in his arms, Patrick moved gingerly through the small minefield of toys and sundry, fishing a few treats from a pouch he kept in the small cabinet that he stored all of her supplies in. Knowing that her need for treats trumped her want to make Patrick miserable, he sprinkled them on the bed by the window before setting his still spitting pet down. Her demeanor changed as soon as she discovered the treats, crunching down on them happily while Patrick beat a hasty retreat, closing the door tight behind him. Problem fucking solved. 

Satisfied and more than slightly turned on at the thought of what, or more specifically who, waited for him downstairs, the redhead moved slowly down the hall and around the top of the stairwell, staying close to the wall. It was still very, very dark, with only the slightest light flickering at the bottom of the stairs from the fireplace. Patrick navigated the dark easily, heading into his bedroom and immediately to the far side of his bed. He perched on the edge and slid open a nightstand drawer that had not been used in a very long time, far, far too long. Everything should still be in date, however, that wasn’t much of an issue. Snagging a handful of condoms, he slipped the foil packets into one pocket of his apron and a small bottle of lube in another. There were other delights in the drawers depths, although perhaps best saved for another time. The idea though was enough to make Patrick very keenly aware of how very hard his dick was in his jeans, and a reminder that Pete, his best friend, taste tester, sounding board and menace to his very existence, was on his couch, half-naked and equally as hard, waiting for him. Not some random hookup; not Ashlee or MikeyWay or any number of the pretty, lanky, eyeliner-wearing one night stands that had been long forgotten. Him. Well shit, if that didn’t make Patrick a little nervous, nothing would. 

Patrick pushed that thought aside, locking it away for later examination, hopefully in the light of day; there was far more to enjoy about the night. Taking a shuddering breath, he stood, pressing the heel of one hand against his cock beneath his apron and biting back a low groan. Jesus Christ. He needed to get right the fuck back downstairs. Pausing only to tug off his socks and throw them in what he knew to be the general direction of the laundry hamper before heading back down to the living room. 

Pete, as per usual, did not listen, not at all, and it both surprised Patrick and seemed especially fitting. The couch was empty save for Pete’s ugly as shit sweater, but the man himself was not to be found until he glanced around the room. Fucking Pete. He was sprawled on the carpet in front of the fireplace, naked as the fucking day was long, dick in hand and head tossed back as the golden light from the flames glowed and flickered over caramel skin covered in dark, swirling black ink. Jesus Christ, he was a beautiful asshole. And, Patrick was fairly sure even if he couldn’t exactly see from his angle, he had a beautiful asshole as well. Because of course. 

“Pretty sure I told you not to move.” Patrick leaned against the wall at the bottom of the stairs and just looked, hooking his thumbs into the belt loops he’d insisted on having stitched into his apron. 

“Pretty sure you knew I wasn’t going to listen.” Pete was contrary as ever, even when he possibly shouldn’t have been. Patrick, however, could play that game too. Untying his apron strings, he slipped the garment off, folding it almost reverently before setting it on the coffee table, the filled pockets upright for ease of access, although Pete didn’t know that, nor would he, not until he needed to anyway. Settling on the couch, Patrick gave Pete a sweet smile, albeit on that wouldn’t be seen in the dark, and flipped open the top button on his jeans, giving a slow tug to pop the next two of the fucking ridiculous jeans he was wearing enough to get his hand below the waistband and finally, finally on his cock. The moan he let out wasn’t actually planned, but it was absolutely helpful as he saw Pete perk up a bit, pushing himself up on his elbows to… watch? He wasn’t quite sure. Patrick had always been fairly no-nonsense when it came to sex, although he did have his fair share of boundaries that had been pushed but this… this was an entirely different situation. 

Slightly spurred on by Pete’s obvious and continuing interest, Patrick let a smile tug at his lips and hammed it up just a little, pulling open the rest of the buttons that made up his fly and eased his cock out, both the air and the freedom from the confines of ridiculous denim combining to bring a sly smile to his lips. 

This was not Patrick’s forte, in the slightest, but he could hear, just past the sound of his own breathing, Pete’s breath catch and soft whine catch in his throat. “You’re a tease, Patrick.”

“I told you to stay on the couch, Peter.” Their banter was interspersed with soft pulls of breath and the almost inaudible sound of skin on skin, seemingly loud in the otherwise quiet room. “You probably should have listened for once in your damn life, fuck.” The curse hadn’t been planned, not at all, but sometimes things just happened to work out in a lovely way, and admonishing Pete at the same time as he jerked off, well, that was surprisingly hot. 

“Triiick.” Pete was outright whining now, Patrick could hear the petulance in his voice and Patrick laughed as he lifted his head and glanced at the naked man who was literally pouting in front of his fireplace. That, right there, that whiny, ridiculous, beautiful man, was his Pete. 

“Jesus Christ, you are ridiculous. Get your skinny ass up here and stop pouting.” As much as Patrick tried to sound irritable, he knew it failed, and gloriously, as he tucked his dick back away in his boxers, just for a few minutes, and squirmed out of his jeans, awkward and flailing. 

Pete, on the other hand, was all naked, lithe limbs and a ridiculously charming, if slightly goofy grace as he bounced on the couch beside Patrick, grinning fit to burst. “Ask and you shall receive Pattycakes. “ 

The detested nickname received a well-deserved glare and a shove, although not in a spiteful way, as Patrick lowered himself back to his knees, parting Pete’s legs and settling on the floor between them, pursing his lips before nipping at Pete’s inner thigh. “Hey, play nice.” The words held exactly zero anger, quite the opposite actually if the waver in his voice was anything to go by. It was not at all surprising, and Patrick grinned to himself as he slipped his glasses off and rested them on the coffee table before allowing his fingers to trace over the warm skin of Pete’s thighs. 

Patrick didn’t do anything but touch, not yet, although his tongue darted out over his lips in anticipation as he settled his ass back on his heels and looked up at Pete expectantly, meeting dark whiskey eyes, his fingertips trailing along ridiculously hot skin. He could see Pete’s cock as he dropped his gaze; Stiff, dark and really fucking inviting as it curved up towards the fucking ridiculous tattoo that stood out even in the dim lights. Somewhere in the back of Patrick’s mind, he wondered how it would taste if there would be any difference between the texture of the black ink and the rest of Pete’s smooth skin beneath his tongue. That was added to his mental ‘to do’ list, but down on the bottom. There were far more pressing matters at hand. Quite literally. 

When Patrick skimmed his fingers over the length of Pete’s dick, he moaned and it was a really goddamn great sound. But when he followed that same path with his tongue, teasing over sweat salt skin and catching single drop that glittered along the slit, well, that was fucking music. 

Smiling, Patrick repeated his happy little pattern twice, committing Pete’s gasps and whimpers to memory. He was ridiculously fucking pretty, like to an illegal extent. 

“You are a goddamn tease, Trick.” The words sounded almost forced and Patrick could see, even from his less than perfect position, the effort that it was taking Pete to get them out without moaning. 

“Not a tease if I follow through.” He exaggerated his response, adding a knowing smile for just a moment before finally, finally taking the head of Pete’s prick between his lips and sliding down as far as he could go, until his lips met his fist, his eyes frozen on Pete’s face. 

“Trick.” Patrick’s name was a moan, broken and beautiful as Pete’s fingers wove into his hair, not pulling just holding, for now anyway. He was shaking, quite literally, with the effort of holding himself still. It was a sweet gesture, Patrick thought somewhere in the very depths of his mind, and he was thankful for the moment to acclimate but really, that was all that he needed. Swallowing almost exaggeratedly, he dragged the flat of his tongue along the prominent vein on the underside of Pete’s dick, drawing the motion out as he pulled off with an obscene pop and licked his lips. He wasn’t an expert, not in the slightest, but Patrick was very detail oriented and made it a point to enjoy as much of his life as he could. While giving head may not have always been the most pleasant experience, he made the best of it on a bad day, today was definitely NOT a bad day and he grinned up at Pete, his cock bobbing just inches from his lips. 

“Patrick, will you suck my fucking dick already? Not that I don’t appreciate the build-up bu- Fuck!” Fingers tightened almost to the point of pain against his scalp as Patrick swallowed back down, blue eyes locked on amber until coarse, wiry hair tickled his nose. Anything Pete may have been saying was lost in a moan, as his hips bucked up, desperate and needy. Patrick’s watered at the unexpected press against the back of his throat but he got over it soon enough and settled into an easy bob. 

It was messy, slick with spit, but the eagerness, the years of wanting and ignoring that had been pushed aside made up for any lack of finesse and within minutes, Pete was nearly writhing, despite the hands that were gripping slim hips in a futile attempt to keep him fucking still, Jesus Christ. “Trick, I’m gonna, I need-”. The message, however, broken it may have been, was still clear, and Patrick pulled away almost reluctantly, Pete’s cock slipping from between his lips. “Fucking Christ. Your fucking mouth, Jesus Christ.” 

Patrick smiled, he couldn’t not, and sat back, swiping the back of his hand over his lips. His jaw ached, just slightly, but it was worth it. He had, over the years, heard Pete getting head far more often than he probably should, and there had never been a reaction quite like that. 

“You’ve gotta, I need… get up here, fuck.” Pete had, apparently, given up on complete sentences, and instead grasped at Patrick’s shoulders, catching the soft cotton of his cardigan and pulling, hauling him bodily against him in a mess of limbs, and material as he yanked both the sweater and t-shirt beneath over Patrick’s head and threw them… well, somewhere. There was a crash wherever it was that they landed, but it was forgotten almost immediately as Pete found his lips in a searing kiss, his hands wandering over pale skin before his mouth trailed wet and messy long Patrick’s jaw to suck a dark mark just beneath it. Patrick fucking melted, whimpering as his nails slipped down Pete’s ribs, wriggling and squirming until his dick was finally, finally fucking pressing hard against a thigh, even from behind his boxers. 

“Eager, hmmm?” There was the barest edge of a tease in Pete’s voice, and Patrick felt teeth that he knew were just this side of too big, too bright trail over his skin. 

“Don’t ask stupid questions of the man who has your cock in his hand, Pete.” Patrick laughed and gave Pete’s dick a light squeeze, sending the man shuddering. 

“Christ, Patrick. Keep that shit up and I’m gonna come all over your goddamn couch instead of in your ass. And I would really, really hate that.” Pete was a presumptuous bastard, although Patrick wasn’t surprised in the slightest. As much as Pete ran his mouth, he was more talk than he let on to most people, and Patrick knew very well when to call him on his bravado, and he did exactly that, heady with the potent combination of lust and longing. 

 

“Who said you were getting anywhere my ass, Pete? Pretty sure you’ve got it backward.” Patrick wasn’t loud, in fact, his voice was little more than a whisper in Pete’s ear, but that was all he needed and he felt him stiffen, the soft puff of breath ghosting against his neck. Bingo. “Is that what you want, hmmm? You want me to fuck you, Pete?” There was the slightest brush of a chin against his shoulder, soft hair tickling as it moved, but no actual words. That wouldn’t do at all. “Say it, tell me what you want, Pete.” His voice was gentle, almost serene and he smiled against Pete’s ear, nipping at the lobe just enough to sting. 

“Fuck, Trick. I need. Fuck me. Please?” There wasn’t any hesitance in the words, per se, but more a silent acknowledgment of the subtle shift in dynamics that was going to occur, a sign of not only trust but care, far beyond what had been given before. Patrick smiled, lowering his head to catch Pete’s mouth in a sweet kiss before smiling. 

“Of course. Anything you want. Get comfortable, Baby, however you need.” The endearment slipped out easily, almost embarrassingly so, as Patrick’s hand squeezed lightly over Pete’s hip before he stood, sliding off his boxers and giving his dick an absent stroke. Jesus fuck, he was hard as hell, but there was no goddamn way he was going to waste this, not after waiting a goddamn decade because who the fuck knew if he would have this chance again. Pushing the thoughts away, Patrick grabbed the lube, stepping back as Pete stood on slightly shaky legs, tilting his head towards the arm of the couch with a knowing grin. Patrick smiled, he couldn’t help himself and nodded, snagging both a condom and the lube from the coffee table. He watched Pete carefully, the firelight flickering on golden skin, paying special attention to his eyes. Pete never could lie worth a shit, not to him anyway; his eyes always gave him away. They spoke the truths that his big mouth always tried to conceal. Right now, Patrick saw nothing but need there, open desire as he shifted and spread what looked like a blanket over the leather before draping himself fucking perfectly over the couch, arms braced on the cushions and his ass in the air. 

There was silence, save for the crackling of the fire as Patrick flipped open the cap of the lube, slicking his fingers up with just a little bit too much of the liquid. Eh, it wouldn’t hurt anything. Crossing to stand behind Pete, Patrick took a moment, just a breath, to take in the scene before him, committing it to memory, just in case. His clean hand slipped over the curve of Pete’s ass, teasing and he received a whimper for his trouble. It was a beautiful fucking sound. 

Slick fingers teased at a tight ring of muscle, circling lightly. Patrick didn’t apply any pressure, not yet, not until Pete pushed back into his touch, silently asking for more. He obliged, gently pressing the tip of one slick finger against Pete’s asshole until it breached him, slipping inside to tease, working a careful rhythm in time with Pete’s soft moans before slipping in a second beside it and crooking them just so to brush over his prostate. Pete fucking keened, rocking his hips back with transparent need. So obviously, Patrick did the same thing again… and again, and again, relishing in each stuttered gasp and desperate cry that fell from Pete’s lips as he added a third finger. Patrick was methodical in his movements, and never let his gaze stray from the slightly obscured view that he had of Pete’s face, his mouth hanging open and his eyes closed. 

“Fuck, Trick. I’m ready just… I’m ready.” There was a desperation in Pete’s voice that was unlike anything that Patrick had ever heard before, it was clear in it’s meaning and the vulnerability that Patrick glimpsed in his whiskey eyes was fucking stunning, another small detail to be tucked away, cherished for whatever was to come. 

Slipping his fingers free, Patrick moved with clumsy movements as he put on a condom, tearing the packet open with his teeth after fumbling with lube slick fingers. It tasted like chemicals and metal and his fillings ached. That, however, was the absolute last thing on his mind as he slicked another coat of lube over his length, clicking the bottle closed and tossing it away before returning to Pete. 

Patrick let his hand, the clean one, of course, trail over Pete’s back covering the ink at the base of his spine and pressing down just slightly, enjoying the warmth before moving to grip his hip, his own dick hard in his hand as he lined up. “Are you-”

“You ask me if I am sure and I swear to fuck I will-” Whatever Pete’s threat may have been was lost in a moan of pure, wanton need as Patrick pushed inside him slowly, fingers digging into toffee skin as he finally, finally fucking stopped, buried to the fucking hilt. Patrick closed his eyes, breathing deeply and just fucking reveling in the feel of Pete, his Pete, hot and tight and absolutely fucking perfect around him. 

The air around them was thick with need, tinged with the smell of the heat from the fire and the vanilla from the cookies that he had baked earlier. Patrick was fucking drowning in sensation, committing every fucking thing to memory as he waited for Pete to tell him to move. He did, although not in so many words. The gasp of his name, a rock of slim hips and a throaty, obscene moan said it for him. 

It was perfect. If Patrick had been a romantic, which he swore he was not but absolutely was at heart, he would have babbled sweet words, said something, anything, aside from the gasped curses and obscenities that fell from his lips. Pete, however, seemed to really fucking enjoy the filth, rocking and moaning in time with each thrust of Patrick’s hips. 

Time seemed to both slow down and speed up in the same breath and Patrick knew, he fucking KNEW that he wasn’t going to last very long, no matter how much he might want to. It had been over a year since he had been with anyone, and far longer than that since he had topped, add to that the fact that this was Pete and, well, he just enjoyed it for what it was, trying not to hope, but at the same time cataloguing each whimper, and moan for future reference. 

“Trick, I’m gonna… fuck- touch me. I need-.” Pete wasn’t making sense, although that was far from surprising. He was, however, always the one with the words; the curse of having the soul of a poet as he liked to say, so hearing him so close to falling apart, knowing that he was the reason, the single reason behind it… Patrick allowed himself a moment of pride before his hand slipped from Pete’s hip beneath him to grasp his cock, working it in time with the increasingly erratic thrusts of his own hips. Jesus Christ, Pete was loud, gasping and panting the closer he got to coming and then, nothing but silence, his head thrown back in a wordless cry as his climax washed over him, and he tightened around Patricks’s dick as a warm wetness slid over Patrick’s fingers and all over the blanket beneath him.

It wasn’t fucking fair that he was that fucking beautiful. The thought was brief but there, floating in Patrick’s mind as he gave one, two, three more strokes before following suit with a strangled cry, no doubt leaving bruises on Pete’s skin before he dropped his hand, gasping for breath. 

And then there was silence. The logs crackling in the fireplace and the desperate, needy gasps for breath were the only sounds in the room now that the slick slide of skin on skin had silenced. It was, for the first time that Patrick could remember, a welcome sound and he focused on that, on the silence, as he steadied his breathing, basking in this moment, in the sweet afterglow for as long as he could. 

“Holy shit.” Pete’s voice was fucking WRECKED as he squirmed below Patrick, who gave a quiet laugh, tapping his fingers gently against Pete’s hip before he slipped his softening dick out of his best friends perfect ass. 

“Yeah?” There was the slightest waver to Patrick’s voice, the confidence that he had had in spades just moments ago slipping away in the post-coital haze as he pulled off the condom, tying it off and absently setting it on the nearest flat surface. 

“Fucking yeah. Now get down and cuddle with me, I’m fucking cold and melty and beyond wanty.” That petulance was back in Pete’s tone, and Patrick knew that it was masking something but he couldn’t figure out what, not right now. Right now, all he wanted to do was cuddle like a goddamn teenager on his couch with Pete, and fortunately, he could do exactly that. Snagging the softest of the pile of blankets that were draped over the back of his couch, Patrick bit back a laugh as Pete somehow squirmed around until he was flat on the couch, watching Patrick with a sleepy, satisfied gaze as he made his way to stretch out beside him. 

Pete was like a goddamn octopus, wrapping around Patrick as though that could somehow get him closer, his face buried against Patrick’s neck. He could feel Pete’s smile as he settled, tugging the blanket over them as the heady, post-sex sleepy haze crept in. 

“Hey, Trick?” Pete’s voice was lazy and low, the words drawn out unnecessarily; he was about to fall asleep. Patrick hummed in response, his own eyes closed as he focused on the warmth that Pete always seemed to emanate, no matter what the actual temperature. 

“I came on your apron.” There was a smile in the words, sleep and satisfied and, had Patrick been anywhere else right now, he may have been upset. He was not. 

“Shut up and go the fuck to sleep, Pete.” Pete did, for once, and Patrick followed behind, lulled to sleep by the soft even breaths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on AllKindsOfPlatinumAndPercocet over on Tumblr. I will answer all the questions. And probably fangirl.


	4. We're Always Sleeping In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the night before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... this happened. 
> 
> Comments and kudos make the world go round, truly. I may possibly be behind in replying. I have some actual things to do, but I will reply once I have finished all of my icky adult shit. In the meantime, Y'all have this. 
> 
> Not beta'd, all mistakes are mine. 
> 
> For SnitchesAndTalkers because she encouraged this mess and has done nothing but cheerlead me the whole way. 
> 
> Thank you and special treats to Laudanum Cafe. She knows why. Cheers, Pats. 
> 
> All of the love goes out to Semi_Sweet and Das_Verlorene_Kind for all of their support. You make this fun. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you so much for taking the time to read this fluffy little tale, I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Aural Satisfaction: 'Sugar, We're Goin Down' by Fall Out Boy

“Trick. Patrick. C’mon, baby, wake up. The power is back on and you are gonna be insufferable if you stay on the couch.” The voice was soft and slow, a lazy smile almost audible as it slurred into his ear. Patrick was far too warm and enjoying his sleep way too much to move, and so he just groaned, snuggling back into the warmth of the other body on the couch. The other very naked body. On the couch. What? As someone whose brain didn’t even begin to function on less than half a pot of coffee, Patrick was in no place to actually make an argument or ask questions. Or even speak, honestly. It was still dark outside, and the snow was falling, white in the street lights. 

Fuzzy-headed and stiff-necked, Patrick simply nodded and set about untangling himself from the mess of blankets and limbs that tethered him to the sofa. It took a minute, a very long one as Pete was fucking warm and it was so damn nice to not be alone, but he finally managed to sit up, blinking through a mess of hair at what he could see of the lights that still twinkled and the fire that was getting low in the fireplace. It was quiet, in that way that only late winter nights could be, save for the crackle pop of the logs and… there it was, the insufferable yowling of his demon cat who was shut up in her room. 

“Brulee is a dick.” His voice was husky with sleep and he knew he sounded ridiculous but couldn’t really bring himself to care. 

“She is indeed. Go on upstairs and get in bed. I’ll take care of things down here and let her out, I promise. It’ll be alright.” There was a laugh behind Pete’s words, sweet and sincere before a kiss was pressed to Patrick’s head and suddenly Pete’s warmth was gone. Patrick caught sight of him moving through the house, naked as the day is long in the dancing firelight, and maybe let himself enjoy the view for a little more than he would have if he’d been more awake. 

Ignoring the mess of blankets and clothes scattered across his floor, he focused solely on his steps, blurry eyes on his feet as he counted his steps aloud before finally hitting his thighs against the edge of his bed. He didn’t give anything any more mind as he crawled beneath the down comforter, the cool softness of the sheets sliding against his skin and the heavy weight of the blankets combining to usher him back into sleep before another remotely coherent thought passed his mind. 

The next time Patrick woke up was exponentially more normal, at least for a minute. His bed was warm, he could feel Brulee’s warm weight on his feet and he felt rested, refreshed in a way that only came with deep sleep. He allowed himself a moment to bask in the comfort of his bed before rolling over and blinking at the windows. There was light filtering through the blinds, that special watery grey that only came with early morning storms which meant that if he was working today, which he wasn’t because Christmas, he would already be late. 

This was one of his favorite parts of off days, getting to simply relax as the last bits of the ether of sleep cleared and Patrick was able to just enjoy the quiet, and the rich scent of coffee as it drifted up from downstairs. There were few things Patrick was thankful for more than a programmable percolator as his mind, as slow as it was pre-coffee, caught up with his body. Granted he had a french press on the stove to supplement, but still.

Rolling over, Patrick was prepared to snuggle into cool sheets; he was looking forward to it actually. He was not, however, expecting to find anyone else in his bed. Then again, it was Christmas, so Pete most likely spent the night and found his way in. And was also naked. Very naked and sound asleep. While one of those fairly normal, the other definitely was not. ‘He’s sleepy because you finally let go of a goddamn decade of avoidance and fucked him on your couch.’ That little voice in his head was far too chipper for this hour, and really, really fucking accurate if the memories that rushed back in his mind were anything to go by. The very, very good memories. Holy fuck. 

Patrick lay there, just absorbing this moment, letting it sink in as he committed every detail to memory; the vibrating warmth of the hell beast that lay on his feet, the way the light glinted off of Pete’s skin, imbuing it with a warmth that was absolutely impossible to put into words as his chest moved slowly up and down, the rise and fall slow and comforting. 

The smile that graced Patrick’s lips as he slipped from his bed was one that was tinged, more than slightly, with sadness. As wonderful as last night had been, and oh sweet Christ on a bike IT HAD, whatever it was that had come over him in the dark, that confidence, self assured, cocky, demanding cloak that had settled over him as soon as the lights had went out was gone this morning, vanished. In it’s place were Patrick’s usual thoughts, or at least the ones that had been usual before he forced himself to shove them in the corner of his mind to collect dust.

Pete was… Pete. Handsome, brash, confident and always, always the brightest spot in any room he walked into. Hell, the walls leaned in to listen to what he was saying, Patrick was sure of it. He had always been like that. Even though Patrick was one of the few that managed to see under the facade that he wore, and wore well, there was something magnetic about him that was undeniable. He glanced back at the still sleeping man in his bed one last time before padding into the bathroom, the slick tile cold under his feet. Patrick ignored the light switch, he could see more than enough from the sun that streamed in through the windows. He could see more than he really wanted to. 

More than anything Patrick had noticed over the last ten years, was that Pete had a type. People always flocked to him, that wasn’t new, but the ones that lasted, that mattered, they were similar in ways that almost anyone could see. Tall, slim, talented, enigmatic… Faces flashed in his mind’s eye, both recent and long forgotten as Patrick brushed his teeth, frowning at his own reflection. Perhaps it wasn’t the time to indulge in self-pity, but Patrick was allowed a few moments, at least when he was alone. 

He was short, there was nothing that would ever be done to change that, with a mop of cinnamon hair that was just a bit too think in a few too many places. Pale and prone to sunburns on the rare occasions he wandered out of either his shop or home enough to actually enjoy the weather and a physique that owed more to pie crusts and cookies than leg presses and crunches. The gym membership that he paid for annually really just served as another way to find his keys easier in the early morning hours. In short, pun intended, he was everything that these folks were not. 

Averting his eyes from the admittedly very blurry blob in the mirror, Patrick dried his hands and quickly twisted the taps for the shower, shifting his weight anxiously as he waited for the water to heat up which took fucking forever on a good day. From what he had glimpsed outside his windows, however briefly, this was not a good day. Just as he was pondering going to make a cup of coffee, there were hands on his waist; warm and familiar from decades of personal space invasions. More than that though, there were lips at the back of his neck and a now familiar cock pressing against his ass. 

“Morning, Trick.” Pete’s voice was gravely and low, and he was warm and hard and perfect. And Patrick melted a little bit at the kiss to the nape of his neck, how in the fuck did Pete know about that? 

“Morning.” His voice was tighter than he had intended, high and worried as opposed to the casual indifference that he was aiming for. It did not at all go unnoticed by Pete who he felt frown into the curve of his neck before pulling away. He was still naked, of fucking course, and he jumped with a practiced ease onto the slick granite vanity between the sinks, eyeing Patrick with surprisingly alert eyes given the hour, and took a swished a slug of mouthwash, spitting and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before he spoke again. 

“What’s wrong?” There was no pressure in Pete’s voice, the question wasn’t accusing or demanding, just kind, concerned and for the briefest of moments Patrick considered lying but his poker face was shitty at the best of times, and Pete could always see through him. He was a terrible liar. 

“Just thinking.” It was the truth. Maybe not all of the truth, but the truth nonetheless. Patrick busied himself with towels, draping a pair over the heated rack that stood beside the shower, fiddling with them until they hung just so. 

“About?” Pete wasn’t going to let this one drop, of that he was very, sure. His prompting was gentle as he slipped off the counter and returned to stand in front of Patrick this time, one hand slipping behind Patrick’s neck and the other beneath his chin to tilt his head back. Apparently, Pete wanted to talk about this. 

“Last night.” Two words. It wasn’t exactly an improvement, lengthwise, but it was something. Pete smiled, slow and sweet as honey, and brushed his thumb over Patrick’s cheek. 

“You know so was I. But I don’t look like someone kicked my cat. What is going on in that head of yours, Patrick?” The question was so gentle, so soft… so very much his Pete that Patrick couldn’t help but sigh. 

“You’re fucking... I mean.. Look at you.” Patrick just gestured at Pete who looked nothing but confused. 

“Trick, you aren’t really making any sense. You’re gonna have to vague that up for me, okay?” Again, the near tenderness in Pete’s voice, reflected genuinely in his eyes almost broke Patrick and it took everything in him not to look away. Why was this so much harder in the light of day? 

“You’re you, you know? And I’m me. And yeah, we have always been us, but last night was a huge fucking deal, at least to me. I wear cardigans and my hair is thinning and I’m not like Mi-” He quieted when a finger fell on his lips. The urge to pull the single digit into his mouth and just taste was almost overwhelming, but maybe now was not the time, if Pete’s expression.

“If you were about to say MikeyWay, I swear to God, I am going to tell Brulee to piss in your shoes. She would do it too, you know it.” The threat, while very real, was delivered with a smile, a real one, bright and toothy and all for Patrick. “Not sure if you noticed, Trick but he isn’t around anymore. Neither is Travie. Or Ryan. Or Ashlee. Or any other of the other people I have been with in the last decade. But you are. And you always have been.” 

“I know, but I’m not-” Patrick tried to protest, but it didn’t last long before that finger was back against his lips. 

“No fucking buts, Patrick. I don’t want to hear it, okay? You’re so much fucking more, you always have been and you can’t fucking see it.” Pete seemed to be thinking out loud instead of actually speaking, a habit which was ridiculously endearing. “You’re fucking… Jesus Christ Patrick. Get in the shower.” 

That was not at all what Patrick had anticipated and he blinked, confused as he watched Pete step back and pull oven the glass door. “In. Now.” There was no arguing to be done, and Patrick obliged with only a slight frown. The water was warm, just this side of comfortably hot, and he sighed as he stepped under it, feeling the warmth start to work its way under his skin. Patrick still felt messy, from stale sweat, sticky lube and sex, and he just wanted to be clean again. Reaching for the nearest washcloth, he blinked in surprise when Pete’s hand covered his own, pushing it aside. 

“Let me. Can I just? Let me show you, Patrick.” The words were quiet, nearly purred into his ear, and Pete’s breath was minty and cool against his skin. Patrick nodded because fucking hell, yes.

Pete was gentle, almost tender as he squirted some of Patrick’s favorite shower gel, a citrusy, spicy, slightly sweet smelling concoction that he spent far too much money on at Lush, onto the cloth and worked up a rich lather beneath the spray before scooting round in front of him.

“Just listen, okay? Please.” The softness was reflected in Pete’s eyes as Patrick nodded, blinking back against the water that spattered against his face. “You are more than you even know, okay? I have no clue how you don’t see that, but I’m going to blame your shitty vision. You have to have some flaws.” Pete spoke just loudly enough to be heard of the pounding water, mostly anyway, although Patrick was more than slightly distracted as the washcloth glided over his skin. It slipped over the muscles in his arms, defined from years of kneading dough and hauling sacks of flour and along his legs, his calves toned but not overly so. Pete’s touch turned almost reverent, when he washed Patrick’s thighs and belly, whispering about how cuddly and warm he was; how soft and strong and perfect. Patrick didn’t know exactly what to make of the words, or the attention, and his face flamed bright red, not at all from the heat of the shower. 

Pete’s hands slowed as he dragged the washcloth over Patrick’s cock, pulling a sweet, soft moan from his lips, the sound reverberating off of the glass walls as Pete repeated the movement, a sly grin playing over his lips. “Let me make you feel good, Trick?” The question was whispered against Patrick’s ear, Pete’s teeth, shiny and bright, snagging the lobe and pulling just slightly. 

“Please?” Patrick’s voice wavered as the washcloth was pressed between his asscheeks, fingers teasing just a bit longer than necessary. The cloth fell to the floor with a wet thwap and Pete pulled Patrick gently under the water, his hand slipping after the spray seeming to brush away the suds. 

“Turn around for me, towards the wall.” 

Patrick did as he was asked, shuffling out from under the spray. His knees threatened to buckle as he felt Pete, solid and shower warm behind him, pressing flush against his back and pushing him tight against the wall. 

"Do you trust me, Trick?" The words were nearly a purr in Patrick's ear, sending a shiver racing down his spine. 

"With my life" The statement tumbled from his lips automatically, perhaps more true than anything he had said, ever. 

"Good. Relax for me. " He could feel the tiles of the shower, smooth and cool against the flushed skin of his cheek, and Patrick's dick twitched as Pete's tongue teased down the back of his neck to trace along his spine. Pete stopped only for a moment, nipping at the dimples in the small of his back, while his hands gripped hips that had a bit more padding than Patrick would have liked.

"You're so fucking soft, I love it." The words were nearly moaned against Patrick's ass as he struggled to see Pete. He made out his hair, wet and mussed from Patrick's fingers. 

"Ready?" Patrick had exactly zero clue what exactly he was ready for, but it could have been playing tiddlywinks with Trump for all he cared; Pete could ask him anything and he would do it 

"Yes." There was no hesitance in the word and he felt Pete's smile against the curve of his ass as strong hands moved to spread his cheeks. There was nothing for a moment, save for the pounding of the spray against the floor and the rush of blood in Patrick's ears. And then there was the warmth of breath on wet skin, the slip of a hot, wet tongue trailing along the cleft of his ass, teasing between the spread cheeks and flicking, just barely over his exposed hole. Jesus fucking Christ, Patrick was going to die in his shower. What a beautiful way to go. 

Patrick’s gasp was sharp and high, blue eyes almost slamming closed as Pete’s tongue teased and lapped, sliding around his asshole again and again. He swore he could feel Pete’s laugh against his ass, the vibrations ricocheting through him like a shot. The whine that slipped from his lips as Pete pushed slowly past that tight ring of muscle was absolutely indecent and Patrick did not give one single, solitary fuck. As much as he had dated, he tended to be a serial monogamist, save for a few one night stands, and rimming, while always something Patrick was curious about, his partners had never been keen on it. God, it was worth the wait. 

Every tease, every touch seemed to go straight to Patrick’s dick, and he had exactly no shame about that, especially when Pete slipped a spit-slick finger inside him, moving along with his tongue. Patrick had no idea how long Pete was behind him; he was very nearly gone, his head falling back as fingers gripped uselessly against the cold tile wall when Pete pulled back. The absence of his tongue was palpable, but a second finger joined the first, stroking and crooking just so; it took everything Patrick had in him to simply stay upright, to say nothing of actually touching his dick, flushed and aching. 

 

“Pete.” The name was a moan, yearning and needy, desperate in a way that Patrick could feel with every bit of himself. 

“Hmmm?” The answer was both simple and dripping with satisfaction, odd combination that only Pete could manage to pull off.

“I need- I want- Fuck!” The curse was sudden, gasped as Pete crooked his fingers, angling them to brush against Patrick’s prostate once and then a second time, as the blond trembled, trying in vain to see behind him. 

“What, Trick? What do you want? I’ll give you anything, everything, just say the word.” There was such honesty behind Pete’s words that Patrick froze beneath their weight. They weren’t ones he hadn’t heard before, but now things were different, and yet they weren’t at the same time. 

“I just- I want. You, Pete, you know what I want. Please.” The last word was a plea and Patrick whined, actually whined, as Pete’s fingers slipped out of him and he stood, his body hard against Patrick’s back. 

“Can I fuck you, Trick? You had your way last night…” Pete’s hand slipped around Patrick’s waist, fingers just gliding over his cock in the most delicate of touches. 

“Yes, Jesus christ. Whatever you want just… now. And not in the shower. I’ll end up getting hurt and you would never let me live it down.” He laughed then, loud and braying, the sound familiar and warm and just about as close to home as anything could get for Patrick. 

 

“ Good.” Pete pulled away and everything was all of a sudden cold and empty and Patrick honest to fuck pouted at the loss, earning him another laugh before Pete pushed his wet hair back off his forehead. “Go lay down for me, I’ll be right in after I brush my teeth.” 

Patrick refused to question, stepping gingerly out of the shower and wrapping a towel around his waist. To his credit, he didn’t look back, even as Pete’s moan echoed through the still open glass door of the shower, but it took all of his willpower. 

He was still dripping when he tossed his towel aside and crawled up the bed, shaking his head to dispel the droplets of water that clung to his hair and slipped down his cheeks. Patrick needed a haircut, but that was the least of his concerns right now. Rolling onto his stomach, he hung slightly over the side of the bed as he fished in his nightstand drawer to grab a condom and some lube. The bottle from last night was still downstairs and he refused to go and get it right now. Twisting and wriggling so he could see even slightly better, he tugged the drawer out to look at it’s contents. There were more choices than he remembered, and he could not for the life of him recall which bottles were which. Finally grabbing a silver capped one and a condom, the foil a bright red in a bit of indulgence for the day, he tossed them absently over his shoulder before stretching out on his back, his eyes closed as he teased his dick, replicating Pete’s tender touches from the shower. 

Patrick’s moans were soft, sweet sounds that bubbled up in his throat as he waited, stopping only when the bed beside him dipped. He paused, opening his eyes and meeting Pete’s gaze with a lopsided smile before darting his tongue over his lip. 

“You’re a fucking tease, Trick, did you know that?” Not one to waste time, Pete moved efficiently as he spoke, gripping Patrick’s hips and sliding him just slightly down the bed. “Up for me?” The request was barely finished and Patrick pushed his feet into the bed, raising his ass up just enough for Pete to push a pillow under his hips before sliding between Patrick’s parted legs. And then he just stopped and looked. And looked. And looked. 

He was studying Patrick as though he was art, with an almost carnal gaze. Art and dinner; Patrick felt like both in the same moment, and was surprisingly unbothered by them both, especially once Pete’s hand grazed his cheek, thumb grazing over his plush lower lip. 

“You’re fucking beautiful, Patrick,” Pete spoke plainly; no poetry or pretty words, but the emotion behind his voice was more than enough to make Patrick melt and his cheeks go pink, the reaction not lost on Pete even as he rolled the condom on and slicked up, teasing two wet fingers back over Patrick’s ass and arching a brow in a silent question. 

Jesus, Patrick was going to die of waiting. He squirmed, pressing his ass against Pete’s hand and reaching out, his fingers just barely brushing against the toffee skin of Pete’s shoulders as his cock sunk deep inside Patrick’s ass in a single thrust. Jesus fucking Christ, He wasn’t the biggest Patrick had had, was smaller than Patrick himself actually, but that was fucking unimportant because this was Pete, His Pete. That was the only thing in his mind right now as Patrick gasped and writhed, tugging him close as he could get and yanking him in for a kiss. It was sloppy and dirty, all tongues and teeth, as Patrick’s short nails raked down Pete’s back as he rocked and writhed to meet each thrust, his breath leaving on a sharp gasp when Pete angled against his prostate. 

It was a mess, erratic stuttering of hips and loud, unabashed cries mingling in the air while hands grabbed and pulled and lips met between gasped exclamations of both sweetness and filth and then with a particularly hard thrust from Pete, Patrick dropped his head back in a cry, as he came, hot and sticky between him and Pete’s stomach. Pete followed moments later, collapsing shaking and heavy against Patrick, nuzzling against his neck. 

They were both filthy against, slick with sex and sweat, but couldn’t seem to move as they both slowly came down from their highs, sticky and sated. The air was quiet and still, save for the sound of labored breaths, and the low him of the central heat as it kicked on. 

“Merry Christmas, Trick.” There was a smile in Pete’s voice as he spoke against Patrick’s neck, his breath warm and tickling. 

“Merry Christmas, Pete.” Patrick grinned almost stupidly, relaxing further into the bed and trailing his hands along the defined planes of Pete’s back as he sighed happily. This moment, unexpected as it could possibly be, was perfect in a way that Patrick had never dared allow himself to imagine. It was bliss in the loveliest of ways and there was nothing that could even begin to taint it. 

Well, that was until the sound of shattering glass echoed up from downstairs, followed by a mournful yowl. Pete laughed, the sound muffled against Patrick’s neck even he shook his head. 

“Brulee, you are a fucking asshole.” Patrick yelled, although there was no heat to his words. Pete kept laughing and Brulee, peeking around the doorframe with wide green eyes, did not give a single solitary fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm usually over on AllKindsOfPlatinumAndPercocet on tumblr. Come say hi!


	5. Caffeine Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Half-Doomed and Semi-Sweet, how may I service you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This is a bit of a departure from everything we have seen so far, but a necessary one, I think. 
> 
> Comments and kudos make the chapters appear faster. Seriously, they really, really do. Ask any writer. 
> 
> This has not been beta'd because I do what I want. All mistakes are mine. 
> 
> As always, this is for SnitchesAndTalkers because without her I wouldn't have the balls to have even started writing it at all. Thank you for being a cheerleader, enabler and sounding board. You are Magnificant. 
> 
> Love and Stoli to Laudanum_Cafe for being just the best. Thanks, Pats. 
> 
> Thank you and endless adoration to Das_Verlorene_Kind and semi_sweet for all of the support and endless conversations. 
> 
> If y'all want to read some amazing work, go and check out ANYTHING these ladies have created, I promise you that you will not regret it. Give kudos and comments. Tell them Platinum sent you. And then come back and fangirl with me. This will wait, I promise. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has taken the time to not only read but comment, I am just in awe. What a gift. 
> 
> Aural Pleasure: 'Caffeine Cold' by Fall Out Boy

“Is he...singing?” William’s whisper was not actually one at all as he leaned against the already stocked pastry case and glanced into the kitchen, inclining his head at his boss. The question had been directed at Gabe who, had he not been in the middle of frosting a batch of ‘Come On Eileen’ cookies, sandwiching a thick Bailey’s and Jameson infused whipped ganache between two pretzel studded chocolate stout cookies, might have actually known the answer. However, Gabe was actually working and was meticulous about his piping, and he did not give a flying fuck about whether or not their boss was singing in the kitchen while he baked and he said as much, not even glancing at William as he piped a perfect spiral of icing. 

“William, I have no fucking clue. If you really want to know, get your skinny ass in there and ask.” There was no heat behind the words and Gabe smiled slightly as he spoke, although he refused to give William the satisfaction of seeing his grin. 

William was not deterred. Dropping the towel he had been using to polish silverware during their usual morning lull in customers, he strolled through the half door into the kitchen where Patrick was working at the long metal center counter, the stainless steel covered with bowls and batters, everything seeming to carry a light dusting of flour, including the baker himself. Leaning his lanky frame against the baker’s rack that held dozens of cookies and pies, to replace the ones in the jars and case as they inevitably sold out, he squinted, as though that would help him hear better. It did not. 

The music in the kitchen was the same as that piped into the shop proper only about three times as loud. Patrick was persnickety about his aprons, his music, his recipes and his hats, especially when he was working. During his first week here, William had accidentally bleached one of said aprons and feared for his life more than his job. Things had settled in the passing six years, but it was a defining moment that he never forgot. Although Patrick’s lips were moving, it was downright fucking impossible to hear anything other than David Bowie as he crooned about Golden Years and angels. 

The bells that hung over the door chimed as someone pulled it open, and William gave up his task, putting on a smile as he returned to the front register. Much to his delight, there was not a customer in the store which could have been confusing, but the person that he did see was even better and William strolled past the pass through, draping his arm over the shoulders of the confused looking but still smiling woman who had just set her satchel down on one of the tiny tables and barely begin unpacking it. With her pink and black curls half hidden beneath a fluffy blue angora hat that matched her coat, the artist looked a little bit like a doll, even with the paintbrush clasped between her teeth. “Melanie! I need to borrow your ears.” Used to such odd requests from the staff, Melanie smiled around her paintbrush before plucking it from it’s resting place and twisting it between her fingers as William not exactly subtlety led her behind the counter. Gabe, for his part just rolled his eyes and set a plate small tray down on the counter. It was lovely, covered with white plates that held slices of this week’s pie specials, and one that had a stack of the corresponding cookies. In the corner, there was a delicate teacup and saucer, hand painted with what looked like beautiful pastries and flowers against a pale backdrop of silver scrolls. As with much it seemed sweet, a closer inspection would reveal the flowers were actually skulls and the pastries were, well, pastries, but they were just a little off, drips of red splashed against whipped cream or shards of shattered glass mixed in on top of a pie. It was gruesomely lovely and Gabe always admired it as he made tea for the window artist, stirring in a spoon of meringue buttercream, as always, instead of sugar. 

William, still unaware of the concept of an indoor voice, led Melanie to the doorway of the kitchen as she shrugged and pulled out of her warm layers. “Is he singing? I asked Gabe but he is a dick and wouldn’t pay attention, and I couldn’t hear over the music. Melanie, always amused by her favorite client's antics, scrunched up her small nose and leaned just slightly into the kitchen. The Bowie was evident, of course, but if she tried, she could just barely catch hints of a second voice beneath the music, one that was almost immediately recognizable as belonging to Patrick. It seemed almost automatic as his fingers worked doughs into the fluted tart pans. There was something a bit different about him this morning, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, and she didn’t really want to either. His happiness was his own and if he wanted to share that, he would in time. “Well?” William always had been one that loved nothing so much as instant gratification and his bright smile and absurdly pretty face lent themselves very well towards almost always getting his way. Melanie, however, had known him far too long for that. 

“Maybe.” She spoke with a smile, all sweetness, and light, before ducking out from under the arm still draped over her shoulders and carefully retrieving her tray, returning Gabe’s wink and heading back to the small table she took over when she worked. The window was already clear, she had come in late Christmas night to swipe all of the designs from the last week away, watching as the paint vanished in pretty, swirly streaks and left a clean, clear surface behind. Sitting down with a sketchbook propped on her knees, Melanie took a sip of her tea, and carefully regarded the treats that were arranged just so and let her mind wander as she pondered how, exactly, to best interpret them for public consumption, as it were. Her mother always said that people ate with their eyes first, and that was exactly her job, to catch people's eyes and bring them in the door. After that, well, Patrick did the rest. 

Patrick, as William was so thoroughly dying to know, was in fact singing, and he didn’t even realize it. He did, however, realize that he had a rather conspicuous employee lurking around the door of his kitchen. It was easy to get lost in his work sometimes, especially if he was making things he really enjoyed which he made sure he was. His shop was his proverbial baby, and he put everything he had into it, he was there more than he was at home, so he absolutely was going to love what he did. He was an odd little baker, that he knew. He refused to bake cakes or cupcakes no matter how much people asked or expected; it wasn’t what he loved. Plus, decorating cakes was a bitch and he hated it; why do something that he hated. Pies, however, all manner of them, well they were easy. Not as easy as music, maybe, but they came rather naturally. The rhythm of rolling dough and folding ingredients, the science of measuring and the slight bit of freedom that came with creating new flavor combinations and translating that to not one but two recipes, well… it was Patrick’s calling, as it were. His degree may have been in music composition, but his heart was in this shop. His heart… a smile twitched at his lips as he let himself think, not for the first time today about what exactly had happened over the last thirty-six hours. He hadn’t anticipated or dared hope for any of this, not at all, not since he was eighteen. Those feelings that he had so carefully shoved away and very pointedly ignored for the better part of a decade had finally pushed out of their little box and poured over into his life. He and Pete hadn’t talked about it, not really. Patrick knew, very well, that they were going to have to, but that could wait. Right now, he just wanted to enjoy this, whatever it was without overthinking. That was something that took work for Patrick. Then again, the last time he had started to overthink, he had ended up pressed against his shower wall with Pete’s tongue in his ass, so maybe that could work out every once in awhile. 

Pushing that thought aside, Patrick finished pressing the sweet tart dough into the pan and added it to the baking tray that already held another before sliding them both into one of the ovens. He was a mess, as was his kitchen, but that was really par for the course. The case was stocked and there were replenishments waiting on the Baker’s racks for the rush, of both cookies and pies and goddamn he needed some caffeine. The small, six cup espresso maker that sat on the smallest burner of the range was identical to the one that he had in his kitchen at home, and he would easily go through two pots a day. It was a wee bit of a problem, but it could be worse. Stifling a yawn, Patrick prepped the small pot, the movements almost automatic by this point, and let his mind wander as he waited for the small machine to work. 

As much as he was not a morning person, and Patrick absolutely was NOT, there was a certain knowing in his smile, despite his being awake before his alarm. He had been sleeping fucking well and having the most fucking dream when he started to stir, his hand immediately reaching for his hard cock beneath the sheets; he had ended up twisting his hands into messy dark hair and realizing, oh hey. That wasn’t a dream, at all. Pete’s mouth was absolutely on his dick, warm hands pressing his hips down as Patrick blinked back into a gorgeous state of consciousness. That was probably the best way he had woken up in, well, ever. 

Although it was probably far from the best train of thought to be having whilst he was AT WORK, Patrick still indulged just a bit, thankful for the apron that covered him from chest to shin; it hid a multitude of sins. This one was one of his favorites, a navy blue with tiny sparrows embroidered over it, the ties wound through the belt loops that wrapped around his waist and knotted off in the front. Again, Patrick was an odd choice for a baker, and he knew it. He would never consider himself a chef, that was reserved for people who had actual training, but a baker? Maybe, a cook definitely. A bit of a scientist? Oddly enough yes, at times. But mostly, he was a lover of what he did, and the way that he did it. 

The espresso maker bubbled and steamed and Patrick shook his head of the lovely thoughts that had been dancing around in it all day and dashed to the freezer for his ice trays. They were old aluminum ones that he’d found still with their stickers on when he had cleaned out his Grandmother’s basement, matching the ones she always used when he was a child. He could still remember that sound from holiday meals with his parents and, as an oddly ice obsessed child, he would always go running to her side when he heard the ice crack. It was a sentimental indulgence, but one he still loved and as he flipped the cold metal lever and dished ice into both of the glasses that sat beside the stove top for only this purpose, he smiled at the sweet memories and carefully poured the boiling espresso between the two glasses, the ice crackling as it met the heat, he alternated as not to make one or the other two strong. Topping the steaming beverage in each glass with a healthy glug of rich, organic cream from a fucking glass bottle because Jesus was he a fan of kitsch and quality, he gathered both beverages and headed out to the front of the house, silently handing one glass to Gabe just as the ridiculously tall man finished piping the filling onto the last of a batch of pale pink-tinted buttercream onto delicate looking sugar cookies. 

“Hotel California?” Patrick glanced down at the perfectly decorated treats that lined a display tray, glittering with the slightest touch of ground, freeze-dried strawberries and pale gold luster dust that had been carefully shaken off a ridiculously small paintbrush. It was STILL easier than decorating cakes; plus, Gabe was freakishly good at it. 

“Yup. William had requests for them before Christmas which is fucking ridiculous, you know that, right?” There was no frustration in Gabe’s voice, quite the opposite actually. It always seemed to sound like he was laughing. It was an odd trait, but one that seemed quite fitting for the smart-mouthed Uruguayan. Patrick hummed in agreement, taking a sip of his Americano and watching as the tray was slipped easily into the display case next to the tarts of the same name. A sweet tart dough held a champagne infused panna cotta that was topped with sliced strawberries and a slick of melted apricot jam for shine, Patrick made the treats for exactly one week a year and, despite numerous requests, refused to bring it out again at any other time. They were a bitch to make and, quite frankly, he hated cooking with champagne; if he was going to spend that much money, he was going to drink it straight up. 

“I know, I had four e-mails about them as well. I don’t even eat the damn things anymore.” 

“I do!” William, because he was William and he could butt into the conversation from his place by the cash register, setting down the colored chalk that he was currently using to write out the specials board. 

“We know.” The reply was in stereo as Gabe and Patrick both hid laughs, rewarded by a middle finger in the air from William even as he smiled. 

“Melanie likes them too, right, Melanie?” The question was addressed to the small woman who was currently standing on a step stool and brushing paint onto the window with a determined precision. She didn’t even turn around to answer. 

“It Patrick makes it, I like it.” 

“Yet another reason we love you. I’ll be sure to pack up some specials for you when you go.” Melanie paused in her work to shoot a beaming smile over her shoulder and Patrick raised her glass in a silent toast. He had a strange crew working for him, but they were the best at what he did, and they were devoted, they had all been with him for years. Patrick knew very well how lucky he was to be able to do something that he loved with people who enjoyed it as much as he did AND make a living at it. 

“Gabe, I think that I am gonna put Golden Years on the specials board this week instead of next, can you make sure we have enough gold luster? I don’t need us to fucking run out again. I swear to fuck these new year's orders are going to be the dea-” Patrick snapped his mouth shut as the bells over the door jingled, signaling a customer. That wasn’t a customer at all. Try as he might, Patrick couldn’t hide his grin when Pete walked in, although he quickly schooled his features into submission. Gabe and William were absolutely notorious gossips and frankly, Patrick didn’t want to deal with them right now. 

“Morning, Pete.” There was maybe just a little bit more eagerness to his voice than usual, and Pete replied with a blinding grin, sliding his sunglasses off, balancing a Starbucks tray in one hand that Patrick wrinkled his nose at. As much as he enjoyed the chain, William’s coffee was far better, and Pete got it for free. Asshole. 

“Trick, Gabe, Bilvy, Mels. Good morning and Merry Christmas. I see business isn’t exactly booming yet.” Setting the tray on the counter and carefully plucking out each drink, in turn, Pete distributed them amongst a sea of thank you’s and a cheerful squeak from Melanie as she stayed on her stool. 

“Don’t be a dick, Pete. We are relishing the quiet while we can, it is going to be a long week. Did you come for a reason or just to be a pain in my ass?” Patrick’s smile was very strategically hidden behind his coffee cup, and the double meaning in the words was blissfully lost on everyone but the man they were aimed at. 

“You wound me, Sweet Baker Boy. I just wanted the pleasure of your company and you give me shit. I am hurt.” Pete pouted, actually pouted, and it was all Patrick could do not to tug him behind the counter. 

“First of all, don’t call me that. Second of all, you never come on just to see me. What do you want?” There was an air of feigned frustration in Patrick’s voice, and he hoped that he was the only one that realized it was for show. 

“I have to place an order actually, my mom’s birthday is coming up and you know how she can be…” The question was left open-ended, and Pete sat on his stool, all wide eyes and bright smile. 

Patrick sighed and took another gulp of his coffee before flipping up the passthrough and gesturing Pete back. “Come on, my office is free. I’m fairly certain the store is in good hands. If anything catches fire, come get me.” The instructions were called over his shoulder as he headed back into the kitchen, Pete fast on his heels, and it wasn’t until the door to the seldom-used office echoed shut through the shop that William turned back to Gabe, his eyes alight with mirth. 

“You think they are finally fucking?” William was never one to mince words, especially if it meant that he could possibly confirm his long-standing beliefs about his Boss. Gabe flicked his eyes from the jar of gold dust that sat in front of him back to the closed door and just nodded. 

“Oh absolutely. No fucking contest. He was singing this morning.” The words were delivered with such casual indifference that Gabe almost seemed not to care, but he was honestly just as invested in this new development as William was, if not for exactly the same reasons. 

“What the fuck? I asked you about that earlier and you played dumb?” Gabe shrugged, not even slightly put off by William’s fuss. 

“I’m fairly certain Patrick was glowing. Of course, they are.” Melanie’s input was simple and she still hadn’t moved from her stool as she put the finishing touches on whatever she was working on and hopped down, surveying the first part of her mural with an appraising eye. 

“You knew too? I’m wounded, Melanie. How could you both keep such vital information from me? You know I have a theory about this.” William was not actually hurt, but he made more than a slight point to pout, more because he knew that it would make Gabe grumble than anything else. 

“And that is exactly why we kept quiet, William. Your nosy ass doesn’t need to be involved in ev-” The bells cut off whatever the rest of Gabe’s admonishment was meant to be a group of middle-aged moms, all with matching bright ski coats and ‘I want to speak to your manager’ haircuts streamed in, shopping bags in tow and the mood quickly shifted, joking and frowns replaced by winning smiles and tip enhancing compliments. It was time to get down to work, any theories could wait for just a bit. Besides, William was fully planning on paying as close attention as he could when Patrick and Pete left the office because, well, he needed answers and that was one fantastic way to find out. The thoughts were quickly pushed aside as he shifted into service mode, setting his chalkboard aside. It was showtime. 

“Good morning, Ladies! Welcome to Half-doomed and semi-sweet. What can I get started for you today?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pastry note: While some of Patrick's cookies and pies are based on actual recipes, others (Like the ones here) are just mishmashes of recipes I have seen and cookbooks I have read. It would be a lie for me to say I didn't have a pie book at my side whilst writing this chapter. I have never made any of these recipes, so I have NO CLUE of they would work, I just like playing with things. I usually pick a song first and then work a recipe to fit it, but in the case of 'Hotel California' I wanted something for the holiday and decided champagne is synonymous with New Year's SO. I will happily take song requests for Patrick to play with, save for Fall Out Boy ones because hello. But anyone else? Bring. It. On. 
> 
> You can send me suggestions, requests and questions over at AllKindsOfPlatinumAndPercocet on Tumblr. I promise I don't bite.


	6. Starfish And Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Patrick pretends he has authority over his employees and is immediately undermined by himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another peek into the sweet shop. 
> 
> As always, for SnitchesAndTalkers for being amazing.
> 
> Comments, kudos and questions make the world go round, for real. 
> 
> This has not been beta'd so all mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Thank you to SnitchesAndTalkers for holding my hand on this, Laudanum_Cafe for the support and the stoli, Das_verlorene_Kind for the inspiration for Miss Melanie and Semi_Sweet for being all around amazing. I couldn't do it without y'all. 
> 
> much love and thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read this fluffy little story, I am truly awed and appreciative. 
> 
> Aural Satisfaction; 'Starfish And Coffee' by Prince because of course. I did write the majority of this listening to CryBaby by Melanie Martinez however, because REASONS.

The door to Patrick’s office shut with a slam that was just a bit too loud and Patrick rolled his eyes as he headed towards his desk. In all honesty, he rarely used the space for anything other than paper storage and the occasional quiet space for when his crew got a bit out of hand. Considering he had three people at the most working for him at any given time, it happened far more than he could have ever imagined. Far. More. 

Carefully moving aside one of the heavy, spiral bound three inch binders that served as his recipe books, Patrick was about to turn when he felt hands on his hips and lips against his neck. As much as he would love to complain, he didn’t because, well, it felt like fucking heaven. Letting his eyes drift closed, Patrick dropped his head to the side and felt Pete’s smile against his neck as deft fingers started working at the knot on his apron. 

“Tell me how it is possible for someone to look so damn good in a fucking apron?” The words were muffled against his neck and Patrick laughed, resting his hand on Pete’s to pull them away from the knot that he was struggling with; it had started as a bow. 

“You are incorrigible, Pete. And you have seen me in an apron more often than not so I have no clue what has changed.” Pete whined against Patrick’s ear, actually whined. The sound was more reminiscent of a kicked puppy than anything else and Patrick just shook his head, a smile pulling at his lips. He had heard that sound before, so, so many times of the last decade and he knew, without turning around what the expression on his face would be. He was not at all surprised when he twisted and jumped up onto his desk. 

Pete’s lip was pushed out in an exaggerated pout, his eyes wide and filled with a combination of false hurt and mirth that only Pete fucking Wentz could pull off and Patrick laughed, slipping his arms around Pete’s waist to rest on his ass and tug him firmly closer, situating him between his legs and dropping a light kiss to his lips. “Is that better?” 

Pete seemed pleased, the pout quickly replaced by a smile that Patrick swore could light up all of Chicago, his hand brushing across Patrick’s cheek. “It’ll do for now.” There was more than a hint of puckishness in his voice and Patrick was worried, for just a minute before his mind went blank as Pete’s lips were back on his neck. 

“For now, huh?” There was the slightest tremor in his voice, one that he couldn’t hide if he wanted to, and he could feel Pete’s smile, the slickness of teeth against skin. 

“For now. I have plans for you, Trick. Just give me some time.” Pete’s hands were back to wandering, sliding under Patrick’s apron to give a tug at his belt and yank at the zipper on Patrick’s jeans. 

“We-fuck. We don’t have time right now, Pete, I am at work. And believe me, it is so fucking hard to say that.” It really was, especially when warm fingers slipped under the waistband of his soft boxers and Jesus Christ, Pete was going to be the death of him.   
“But…” There was that whine again, accompanied by teeth on his earlobe as Patrick rested his hands very firmly against Pete’s ass and pulled him as close as he could before their lips crashed together. The kiss was wet and dirty and just the slightest bit desperate, all teeth and tongues and fluttery moans while hands slid over heavy denim and soft, warm wool. 

As easy as it was to get lost in making out on his fucking desk like a pair of teenagers, and it absolutely was, the loud buzzing from outside his door was more pressing than Patrick’s dick against his jeans, but just barely and he groaned, not entirely from frustration. 

“Pete. Pete, I have to… the fucking timer, I need to go check the oven.” Stumbling over his words was something Patrick was very used to, although it wasn’t usually this pleasant. Pete finally stepped back, whiskey eyes glowing with a combination of arousal and need that looked absolutely sinful on him as he pulled the door open with an exaggerated bow.

“As you wish.” Patrick rolled his eyes as he squeezed past Pete, yelping as a hard smack landed on his ass, but he didn’t actually say anything because he was just as likely to drag him back into his office and bend him over the desk as he was to yell at him. Where these goddamn urges were coming from, Patrick did not fucking know, but as he was pulling the perfectly baked tart shells from the oven, Pete’s gaze weighing heavily on him, he’d never been more thankful for an apron. 

Dropping the sheet pan on the center island to cool, Patrick just gestured at Pete to get the fuck out of his kitchen without actually saying anything. It was kind of amusing to watch him head towards the door, but there were absolutely more important things to be focused on now. 

Turning his attention back to the tart shells before him, Patrick pondered for a moment what, exactly he was going to do with them, pursing his lips in thought until he finally headed towards the pantry and tugged open the double doors. It was immaculate, each shelf perfectly arranged to Patrick’s specifications and sorted by flavor, type and size. Blue eyes darted across the shelves until he caught sight of what he didn’t even realize he wanted with a bright smile. Grabbing both the glass jug and the two-pound jar beside it, Patrick juggled the items until he could set them down before heading directly to the commercial fridge. 

There was a literal VAT of pastry cream taking up the entire bottom shelf, ten pounds of it to be exact, made fresh every morning, and divided up every day. He didn’t bother moving it because that was just a bad idea, instead using a measuring cup to retrieve some. Closing the door behind him, he eyed the ingredients before him speculatively, pursing his lips as he transferred the stiff cream to a bowl. Drizzling a healthy glug of the syrup in, he watched as the dark amber color slipped across the cold, vanilla scented cream. It was lovely, in a strange way, and Patrick was once again reminded of how much he loved what he did before taking a whisk to both ingredients and blending them just until they were combined. The pastry cream was still very thick, which was exactly his plan and as he divided it between the tart shells and smoothed the tops, he made sure to snag a taste with one of the hundred spoons that he had on hand for that exact purpose. Perfect; sweet and vanilla heady but with the warm, just barely woodsy hit of maple that he was looking for. The spoon clattered in the sink as it was thrown with a surprising accuracy that, if Patrick was honest with himself, was more luck than skill. 

Next came the sugar. It was deep and rich, just slightly moist and smelled like nothing so much as the week he had spent in Norwich at the King Arthur baking school. In fact, it was actually sourced from them, as were most of his ingredients that weren’t fresh or homemade. He made a mental note to send a card to G for the holiday before carefully covering the smooth tops of both tarts evenly and heavily with the sandy looking sugar. 

And then it was time for the best part. There was only so much need for a blowtorch in his kitchen; Patrick wasn’t a chef, he was simply a baker, but goddamn if he didn’t love the cool gadgets. He watched with a practiced eye as the blue flame kissed the topping, melting it and transforming the sugar from granules onto a crisp, amber and deep gold lid, he just barely bitter scent of singed sugar drifting to his nose. Perfect. 

Balancing a tart in one hand and his coffee in the other, he headed back out to the shop; it wasn’t much different than when he had left it. William was leaned against the counter by the register and worked on his specials board, colored chalk streaked along his black apron apron, Gabe was still working on the next batch of Hotel California cookies because he was a damn perfectionist, almost as bad as Patrick was, and Pete was standing beside Melanie as she finished up the first part of her mural. From what Patrick could tell, it was a slice of Hotel California tart balanced on top of a glass of pink champagne with a cookie forming the base of the glass and tiny, sparkling bubbles floating around the tart and landing in piles around the cookie. It was absolutely perfect and it would only get better. 

Melanie, as much as she was technically only a part-time employee, and if Patrick was totally honest with himself, she was a contractor, had been one of his first customers when he had opened, skipping in all pigtails, smiles and fluffy skirts just after he had flipped the open sign over and was his first real regular, coming in every day of the week. He had still been the only employee at the time, it was just before Gabe and William had been hired on, and he had included a free slice of Raspberry Beret pie with her usual late order one day on a whim. The deep, sharp and sweet filling and fluffy pink and deep grey tufts of meringue topped with a tart blackberry sauce had actually been inspired by her hair which had, at that time, been perfectly split between jet black and a vivid pink. 

She had returned the next day with a small painting of that same pie, surrounded by meringue clouds that dripped with a purple rain and a lemon sun that glittered in the corner. It was perfect, quirky and fucking gorgeous; it was still framed, along with all of the other drawings she had gifted him over the years, on the far wall of the shop just past the cash register where they were seen by every person who came in. It had been the beginning of a beautiful friendship and, after a brief conversation about her other jobs, Patrick had signed her on as a part-time employee with benefits as best as he could. He still attributed her work on his windows as the main reason people came in, even if she denied it. 

Pete was saying something that he couldn’t make out from here, gesturing expressively with his hands as he turned beside the step stool and looked up at where the paintbrush met glass as Melanie added more glittering bubbles floating up towards the top of the window. He absolutely was not staring. 

"Uh, Boss?" There was a certain lilt to Gabe's voice that never amounted to anything but trouble, and it was reflected in his grin. 

"Yes, Gabe?" Patrick was tired and horny and he had nearly burnt his tart shells while locked in his office fooling around with Pete but he managed to pull his eyes from the two folks at the window to glance up at his stupidly tall employee. 

"You ah, forgot to wash your hands." There was something akin to absolute delight in his voice and Patrick followed the direction that he pointed a long finger towards Pete who threw his head back and laughed as he handed Melanie another paint brush. That wasn't what he was looking at though, at all. Pete, as was his wont, was wearing black: black jacket, black shirt, black jeans. All black everything. And standing out blindingly against that, strategically placed on Pete's very, very nice ass, were two clear handprints. In flour. 

"Fuck you, Saporta." There was no heat in the curse, although Patrick could feel his cheeks flame as he realized just how obvious he had been, even when he was trying to do the opposite. “Just cut the fucking tart.” 

 

Choking back a laugh, Gabe set aside his piping bag and grabbed both a knife and a pie server as he moved the mentioned tart to his workspace and made quick work of slicing into it and serving half of it up onto the five plates that waited on one of William’s trays, each with a small fork on the side. 

“Whatever you say, Bossman.” There was a blatant laugh in the words, as there always was with Gabe, and Patrick could feel William before he saw him, one long arm snaking around Patrick to snag the tray, moving with a grace that seemed especially fitting for someone with such a willowy frame as he distributed the treats. “So how long has this been going on?” There was a gentleness that had crept into Gabe’s tone and Patrick couldn’t help but smile. 

“It’s really new. Like… Really new. But it’s good.” Patrick’s cheeks were still flushed, but not from embarrassment as his eyes slipped over to Pete as he helped Melanie down from the step stool. 

“You deserve some happy, Patrick.” It was such a simple compliment, but it was far more genuine than most people would have expected from Gabe. As long as Patrick had known him, there had been two very, very distinct sides to him, and only his friends got to see the second one. It was pretty much an honor to be on that list. 

“Thank you, Gabe. Now eat up and tell me what you think.” Quick to divert attention, Patrick took a bite of his pie, relishing at the contrast of textures and flavors as they exploded on his tongue. The cool, soft creaminess of the filling was rounded out by the depth of the maple syrup and the buttery crust and crispy, just this side of smoked lid provided perfect contrast. It was a good experiment; he couldn’t say that for everything. 

What’s this one called? It is fucking good.” That was high praise from Gabe who usually erred on the side of the cookies. 

“Starfish and Coffee.” The reply was automatic and Gabe bounced his head in a nod, clearly appreciating the reference. 

“Prince. Well done.” 

“Hey, P?” William was right behind him again, and Patrick didn’t even need to look to know he was grinning. 

“What, William?” There was an air of exasperation in Patrick’s voice, but it was forced, and there was no doubt that his employees could tell. 

“It’s about fucking time, man. Good for you.” The words were genuine and Patrick was touched by them, far more than he probably should have been. But there was no time for him to get lost in thought as the bells over the door jingled and a group of bouncy, loud and pink-clad girls entered the shop, weighed down by shopping bags and wearing sunglass that made them look like nothing so much as aliens trying to hide amongst the people of Chicago. Laughing that thought away, Patrick adjusted his hat and pasted on his customer service smile, turning his attention to the first customers of what would turn into his lunchtime rush. He looked away for the briefest of seconds to catch Pete’s eyes, his smile bright, and dipped his head in a quick, knowing nod before addressing the group of future Stepford wives, already clad in Lily Pulitzer.

‘Welcome to Half Doomed And Semi-Sweet, what can we do for you today?” He pumped some extra sunshine into his voice, just for kicks, and Gabe snorted behind his piping bag. 

The response to the question was a mess of squeals, giggles and not exactly intelligible questions about nearly everything in the pastry case. It was going to be a very, very long day, but unlike most others, Patrick had something to look forward to when he left and that excitement nearly ran through Patrick’s veins as Pete watched him, not at all inconspicuously from the table that was scattered with Melanie's paints and brushes. It was going to be a very, very good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can usually be found on AllKindsOfPlatinumAndPercocet on Tumblr. Come say hi!

**Author's Note:**

> Want to talk? Have Questions? Just want to see pictures of this world? I am AllKindsOfPlatinumAndPercocet on tumblr. Come say hi.


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